The Prisoner
by Gamebird
Summary: In the Five Years Gone 'verse, Peter lost the fight with Sylar at the federal building. Sylar took him prisoner instead of killing him, but taking Peter's ability has unexpected effects on Sylar, who falls in love with his victim.
1. The Hammer

**Title: **The Prisoner  
**Characters: **Future!Peter and Future!Sylar, of the Five Years Gone 'verse  
**Rating: **NC-17  
**Warnings: **Fully resisted non-consensual sex, explicit sexual content, disturbing situations, moderate physical torture, a lot of later sex of a dubiously consensual nature  
**Word count: **~30,000 (very rough estimate - story not complete as of publishing first chapter)  
**Setting: **Five Years Gone 'verse  
**Summary: **Peter lost the fight with Sylar at the federal building. His allies assumed Sylar killed him, as he did all specials he came across in the messy war they were fighting. Sylar though, had something else in mind.  
**Author's Notes: **This is a psycho-horror/drama. It's supposed to be dark.

* * *

Peter woke groggily. He was on a concrete slab with a thin mat on the top of it. He tried to lift his arms only to find them strapped down. His legs were similarly secured and there was a strap across his chest. He swallowed and looked around. He was in a fairly spacious cell, maybe twenty by thirty feet. It had a door, steel, set in a similar frame. It had an absurdly small toilet. There was nothing else in it, but this platform and himself. There was no window or viewing port. The lighting was recessed behind a heavy screen, but the ceiling was high enough there was no way he was going to get to it, even if he stood on the platform and jumped.

He hurt in a lot of places, which was fairly new. He'd had regeneration for years now, long enough that continuing pain was unfamiliar to him. He could feel the catheter in his vein where an IV line had been placed in him and the back of his throat was raw. He must have been intubated at some point. There was no IV bag though, nor any medical or monitoring equipment of any kind. It was eerily silent. He could see a speaker built into the ceiling and a couple small, shielded air vents too small for his head to fit through. He was draped with a sheet, but otherwise wearing nothing. It was cold in here - unpleasantly so. Every now and then he shivered as time passed. Nothing happened.

He'd taken to staring at the door because there was nothing else to look at, so when Sylar phased through it, Peter saw him immediately. And immediately, adrenalin flooded his system. He jerked at the restraints, his nose wrinkling in distaste and the beginnings of a snarl. He struggled briefly while Sylar stood near the door and watched him, smirking.

Peter couldn't remember how he'd lost the fight at the federal building. They'd closed with one another, each seeking to overpower the other with sheer damage. That continued until nearly simultaneously they'd broken from the hold, got distance and tried using more exotic abilities. Sometime after that they'd gone hand to hand again. Peter's memory was foggy beyond that - he'd been held down, there'd been more than just Sylar there, pain in the back of his head, pain all over, his chest hurt … and then he was here. His chest still hurt, now that he thought about it. If he didn't know better, he'd think he'd gotten CPR.

"Hello, Peter," Sylar said condescendingly.

"Go to hell!" None of his abilities were working, but that much Peter had figured out almost as soon as he woke.

"Hm. I'm sure I will someday. But in the meanwhile, I have so much time to play with you." He practically purred.

When Peter didn't answer, the sheet whipped off his body. It was even colder without its slight protection. He squirmed, looked after the sheet, then back at Sylar. He did not appreciate the way the other man was looking at his body. Peter's eyes widened slightly. "Stay the fuck away from me," he said in a hoarse whisper.

That only seemed to encourage the other man, who walked over next to the platform, raising a hand near his leg. "Oh? It would seem that you're in no position to be giving orders, Petrelli." He put his hand down deliberately on Peter's thigh, making Peter twitch and renew his attempt to get free. There was no way to do that, though. With only normal human strength, the bonds were easily a match for him. "You were clumsy," Sylar said. "You should guard your kill spot better."

Peter said nothing, breathing fast out his nose. He glared at Sylar, so Sylar looked up and down his body and began to rub his leg provocatively. His fingers teased around to the inside of Peter's thigh. Peter's head snapped to the side, looking away. He thought of things to say, but he kept his mouth shut. Fear of his helplessness warred with anger at Sylar for taking advantage of it.

Sylar sounded as pleased as possible. "Well, it would seem that you are _entirely_ at my disposal, Peter. I can toy with you for as long as I want. What do you think of that?"

Peter was silent, thinking back over the fight and trying to ignore his tormentor. Maybe he'd go away. Maybe he'd get to the point. Maybe he'd just get bored and leave him alone again. A strong electric shock ran through Peter a moment later, making him convulse. It forced the air from him and made him bite the tip of his tongue. Pain filled him and he cried out.

"Don't ignore me," Sylar whispered when he was done. Peter looked at him, eyes blazing with defiance and impotent rage. Sylar loomed over him. "You're going to amuse me whether you want to or not, Peter. I've broken men before, but you're the first one I've ever cared about." Peter's face twisted in confusion. "Yes, Peter. You're special. You're different. You're just like me." He smiled. Peter looked revolted.

Sylar looked away, eyes unfocused. "It doesn't take much to break a person, Peter. Just a little bit to push them over the edge, to make them beg for forgiveness, to make them willing to kill to get what they want." Peter had the impression Sylar was talking about someone else, maybe himself. He looked back at the empath now. "You'll come around, I'm sure. We're made for each other. My advisors tell me I should leave you in the morgue next to your niece, with a stainless steel spike in your skull just like hers." He reached up and touched Peter's face, careful not to put his fingers anywhere they could be bitten. Peter jerked his head aside immediately. "But I have other plans."

Sylar settled for resting his hand on Peter's shoulder, where it couldn't be shrugged off so easily. Peter felt like his skin was going to crawl off on its own though. He wanted to tell the monster not to touch him, but he didn't give him the satisfaction. He glared at him briefly, then looked away pointedly. Let him shock him again. There was a limit to how badly he could hurt him. Eventually he'd pass out and that would be that. Peter just hoped it didn't take too long to get there.

Sylar's hand moved down his arm, pressing slightly against the swell of muscle and over the joint of his elbow. He came to the strap and, to Peter's shock, unfastened it. As soon as it was free Peter yanked his hand out, balling it into a fist. But he held his blow, not that he could make much of one from where he was lying. Sylar went to his feet and undid the bindings there too. Peter reached up and worked the one on his chest and was struggling uselessly at the one on his other wrist when Sylar came around and reached for that one too. Peter jerked his hand away, breathing hard and watching his enemy. The releases were set up to require two hands to work them. Peter could get it eventually like he had the one on his chest, but if Sylar was going to do it… he waited.

Sylar stood with his fingers on Peter's forearm and wrist, studying him for a long while. Peter was half sitting up, staring between the restraint and Sylar's face. He swallowed roughly. This was the last thing holding him in place. Sylar slowly, very slowly, released him. The second he was free, Peter leaped off the platform on the opposite side and backed to the door. There was no knob on this side, no handle or obvious way to open it. He pressed on it. There was no give.

Since Sylar was still on the other side of the platform, Peter turned and checked the door more thoroughly. He tried to hook his fingertips in the seam. He snatched the IV shunt out of his hand and threw it aside, ignoring the little bit of bleeding that resulted. He bent to examine the door's small opening near the floor - it seemed to be a slot for putting things into the room. There was a panel on the other side, so he couldn't see out. He pressed on it. It was locked down.

At a sound, he spun, still crouched on the floor, still naked. Sylar was unhooking the restraints, removing them from the platform. They were threaded through narrow holes in it, with rings that hooked them to each side. He pulled them out, gathering all three with one end in each hand, the three straps parallel with one another. He gave them slack, then pulled them taut, making them snap against one another. Peter's eyes widened. He got to his feet.

There was no way out. Sylar closed on him slowly, saying, "I'm going to have you, Peter. One way or another."

Peter drew himself into a fighting stance. When the other man got close enough, he surged forward and swung at him. Sylar dodged back, but Peter followed up immediately with his left, hitting Sylar on the forearm, distracting him. He'd always been better at hand-to-hand fighting than Sylar was. A moment later Peter hit him in the face with his right, knocking him back against the platform. Peter jumped at him, grabbing at the restraints and yanking one free from Sylar's grip. He whipped it around and swung it, the metal hook near the end giving it weight. It clocked Sylar across the face. It wasn't as hard as his fist, but it hurt nearly as much and there wasn't any chance of Peter breaking his hand this way.

Sylar threw out a hand and Peter was shoved back suddenly with unseen force. Sylar had always been better at using his powers, especially during times of stress. Peter shifted his grip to the end of the strap and swung it again, but this time Sylar caught the other end neatly, augmented by his abilities. He jerked it from Peter's grip. The other two straps were at the killer's feet. Peter fell back. He glanced around the room again, looking for something, anything, to give him an advantage. There was a sheet and a toilet. Sylar came towards him. He dodged to the side, ducked and grabbed at the sheet, thinking maybe he could get it over Sylar's head and blind him.

But as he'd bent to clutch at the sheet, Sylar came around at him. He got the strap under Peter's chin and pulled him off his feet, back against the killer's body. Disturbingly, he had an erection. Peter worked his fingers under the strap and tried to get leverage to kick behind him. His feet locked up, restrained by Sylar's thrice-damned power of telekinesis. He pulled futilely against the strap. Sylar bent forward, whispering in his ear, "We can fight, or we can fuck. You decide."

Peter shifted his grip and punched Sylar in the nose, feeling it crunch under his knuckles in a highly satisfying manner. Concentration broken, he found himself released. He snatched up the sheet and wheeled to face his adversary, who was straightening his nose and looking relatively unbothered. Peter paused to catch his breath. He rubbed his throat. He flinched when Sylar put out his hand, but it was only the other two straps near the platform that he called to himself. A moment later, the sheet too joined them, whipped out of Peter's grip faster than he could react.

He stood there naked and defenseless and very, very angry. Sylar sniffed, clearing his nose of the blood. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, then summoned the IV catheter to his hand, from the corner of the room. He put it in his pocket. "If that's how you want it, Petrelli." He walked to the door, gave him a final smirk, and phased through it.

Peter stood there for what seemed like many minutes before he decided Sylar wasn't coming back any time soon. The fight left his body and he trembled from the excitement. The room spun and he sunk to the floor. The bare concrete was uncomfortable as hell. He didn't stay there long, retreating to the platform. The mat on it was the only comfort in the room, meager though it was.

* * *

Time passed, Peter supposed, but he had little way of measuring it. The slot at the bottom of the door opened once to admit a flimsy fiberglass tray containing a shallow cardboardish bowl of something that looked like chili, and a flat plastic pouch of what seemed to be merely water. There were no utensils. There was, however, a note. It directed him to place all containers, dishes, trays and other items in front of the slot after he was done. It warned that failure to comply would result in denial of amenities.

Peter snorted and looked around the room. Amenities? He might be denied 'amenities'? He finally had to laugh at how ludicrous that was. He retreated to the platform with his tray and picked up the bowl carefully. The food was lukewarm, but it had at least been hot at one time. To Peter's surprise, it wasn't all that bad. He ate it all. He declined to lick the bowl, even though he was tempted. He wouldn't be reduced to being an animal. He tore open the pouch with his teeth and drank. It tasted metallic and odd, but it was water and he was glad to get it. He'd already found the toilet was dry during his brief exploration of the room. He hoped it didn't stay that way, but he hadn't had reason to find out yet. Since he'd eaten and drank, it was really only a matter of time.

Time. He seemed to have a lot of that. The lights remained on, never changing. He replaced his tray, bowl and empty pouch next to the slot and spent his time watching for the mentioned retrieval. He heard the faint, echoing footsteps of the attendant or whoever it was who came down to get it, a half hour or maybe several hours later. He couldn't tell. They released a lock on the outside, opened the slot, reached through with a hooked implement, snagged the tray and pulled it out. A moment later he was given a small roll of coreless toilet paper.

He jumped down from the platform and retrieved it. _I have an amenity now! _he thought. It was ridiculous what sort of things became valuable when you had nothing else. He didn't even have any clothes, and that was something that he became starkly aware of when Sylar entered the room hours later. Peter had been lying on his side on the platform, shivering and trying to sleep. It took him a moment to realize he wasn't alone. He jumped, awake all at once, his body flushing with energy.

Sylar asked, "Are you still going to fight me, or are you feeling a bit more cooperative?"

"Go fuck yourself." Peter got off the platform on the opposite side, keeping it between them.

Sylar began walking calmly around it. Peter circled, keeping the concrete pedestal between them, eyes narrowed at his enemy. They made three circuits, with Sylar getting steadily closer. It was too broad for him to be able to reach across and grab him and one thing about having no clothes was that it made Peter distinctly difficult to grapple. He'd forgotten something though - Sylar could phase right through solid objects. He stopped opposite Peter and lunged, passing through the barrier.

Sylar grabbed at his hair, getting his shoulder, scratching him as Peter twisted away. Rather than retreat again, Peter swung at him, hitting him on the cheekbone. It was the same hand he'd hit him with the day before and it hurt. People's heads were not good things to slam one's hand against, even the more delicate bones of the face. Sylar swung upwards, punching Peter in the side of the gut. It didn't knock the air out of him, but it made him stagger sideways into the platform.

He tried to continue his motion to roll across it, but Sylar grabbed a foot and yanked him back. Peter tried to kick him, but Sylar was between his legs. He tried to roll onto his stomach, but an invisible band of pressure around his waist held him in place before he could accomplish it. Everything he tried to do was thwarted. For a moment he tried wriggling, tried to find something in the telekinesis to put his hands against and push on. There was nothing there. While he did that, Sylar did something far more frightening. There was a wet squelching sound from him and a plastic tube of something landed on the floor off to the side.

Peter stared at it, going still. A second later, wet and cold hit his ass, smeared liberally down his crack. He started yelling inarticulately and struggling for all he was worth, more hysterical than controlled now. He scrabbled with his feet, trying to get an angle to kick, to push his assailant away - anything. Sylar pressed against him.

"No! No! _**NO!**_" Peter fought harder, but there was absolutely no give. Sylar shoved into him and it _hurt._ It hurt bad and his yells took on a different tone - more desperate, but no less angry.

"Stop it, Peter. Stop it."

"Stop it? You stop! Stop! _Stop!_"

"Stop struggling, damn it." Sylar slipped out. He grabbed Peter's head by the hair and tried to slam it into the mat. First, the mat was padded, and second, Peter managed to catch himself and resist most of the blow. He whacked his head, but not very hard.

Peter had never had anal sex before. He'd experimented a little with fingers, but never went further than that. He paused for a breath, but Sylar was back at him before he could even draw air. He yelled again, because it still hurt.

Peter chanted loudly, because it seemed to be upsetting Sylar and it was the only weapon he could find, "I don't want this. I don't want this. I don't want this." He tried to tense his muscles and clench up. Maybe he could make it impossible.

Sylar bent over him and kissed his back, which was disgusting in the extreme. He felt nauseous suddenly. The pain in his anus got worse as Sylar forced his way further in.

"It hurts! It hurts! Stop! No, don't do this. Don't!"

"Would you _shut up!_" Sylar sounded frustrated and exasperated.

Peter's throat spasmed like invisible fingers were gripping it. He was rapidly reaching the end of his rope. He hadn't been in good condition when he'd woke up the day before, he'd eaten only once, been so cold he couldn't really sleep, and now the fight had gone on long enough that he was starting to shake and lose it. Having his airflow cut off was the final straw. For several moments, he lay there and grabbed uselessly at his throat, doing nothing other than trying to get a breath.

Sylar began pumping at him. It didn't matter though. Peter's world was growing dark and the pain receded. A moment later he could breathe again and once more, he could do nothing but lay helplessly while he gasped like a fish. When he finally had his wits again, he tried more slowly, despite the rapidly blossoming pain, to work his foot in front of Sylar's leg and shove him off. His offending feet were yanked aside with telekinesis. Sylar used his hands to spread Peter's cheeks a little more and went all the way inside.

"Agh! Would you… stop. Stop. You don't want to do this. I can tell you don't. You're raping me. I don't-"

Sylar grabbed his head and this time managed to slam it down without Peter being able to muffle the blow. His nose began to bleed and his head rang. For a moment all he saw was stars. "I told you to shut up!" In good news, Sylar seemed to have abruptly lost his erection. Peter could feel him stroking himself furiously, trying to get it back up. Sylar growled at him, "You're looser when you're unconscious. Keep your fucking mouth shut or I'll keep you that way."

Peter felt him line up to enter him again and he drew breath. Sylar was a little more proactive this time though. Peter's throat seized again and he didn't get to say anything at all. He was choked out twice more, with Sylar plowing him agonizingly the whole time, before he gave up fighting it. He hunched his shoulders, kept his head down, and said nothing. His breathing, which had been littered with coughs and gasps as he'd regained awareness this last time, had faded into choking sobs. He tried to tell himself he was just still having trouble breathing. That's what he told himself. After a while, even that flimsy excuse fell apart as he cried.

Sylar slammed into him harder a few times and groaned a little theatrically. He pulled out immediately, or rather, fell out. Peter had the oddest impression the orgasm had been fake. Sylar put his hand on the small of Peter's back and the telekinesis faded - all of it. Peter didn't move though. He waited until Sylar removed his hand before slowly pulling himself up on the top of the platform. He curled very tightly into a fetal ball. He panted, sniffled and watched Sylar like the other man was a wild animal that might attack him at any time, and he had no defense whatsoever.

Sylar summoned the lube to him and tucked himself away, breathing roughly himself. He looked upset. He started to say something. Peter flinched. "Rapist," the Italian said hoarsely.

Sylar hung his head, shook it, and walked out.


	2. The Stick

Peter felt horrible. He felt filthy. He felt used. He felt soiled. He was terrified. He was cold. He had nothing to clean himself with. He lay curled on the platform, staring at the door. He thought about how if he ever got out of here and ran into a rapist, he would crush that person into a paste. He fantasized about using his abilities against this faceless person. He didn't think about Sylar, because that was too real and too close and too horrifying to think about. He only thought of the safe and distant, hypothetical other.

His ass hurt. So did his nose, and his knees and elbows where he'd bruised them badly, having slammed them against unyielding concrete in his struggles. He'd pulled a lot of muscles. He was exhausted and shaking - full-on shaking, not shivers from being cold, although he was also cold. The sound of distant footsteps made his chest tighten until it was hard to breathe. The room seemed to contract. They stopped outside his door and he kept repeating to himself that Sylar's entrance had been silent both of the times he'd arrived. The slot opened and a tray was pushed in.

It was food. The steps went away. He relaxed a little, but the shaking started again. He stared at the tray. All he could think of was the inhumanity that they expected him to get up and eat after what had happened, like there was nothing wrong. Maybe they didn't even know what Sylar had done to him. They probably didn't even know who Peter was. He could die in here and they wouldn't know. There wasn't even a peephole in the door. Some time later, whoever it was came and retrieved the untouched tray. He was glad it was gone. It had seemed like an intruder into his space.

He hoped it would be a long time before Sylar came back, because he was sure the man _would_ be back. Peter did not think he would be so lucky as to avoid a repeat. He started crying again at that thought, tears leaking down his face. He cursed himself for being such a pansy inside despite the tough guy persona he'd cultivated over the last few years. Yes, he'd seen a lot and had to deal with a lot that had hardened him up, but somewhere inside he was still that stupid kid with long bangs and his head in the clouds. One thing about having no witnesses was that there was no one to see him sob. He gave in to it.

Later, a second tray came through the slot and this time, wearily, Peter descended from the platform and went to it. It was vegetable soup and another packet of water. The soup smelled good, but triggered the opposite reaction. He bent to the side and retched violently, throwing up what little liquid he had in his stomach. He snagged the water pouch and retreated to the platform, where he gnawed a hole in the corner of the pouch and sucked at it slowly, so as to not set off his stomach again.

He tried to think of anyone who could help him. There were some, but he didn't know if they would know where he was. Hiro seemed to be his only hope and the Japanese man probably didn't realize he was still alive. It was inconceivable, after all, that Sylar would keep Peter alive if he got his hands on him. Peter tried to use his powers for the nth time, but he had none. He talked to himself in his head, trying to tell himself he'd be okay. He prayed, with no expectation that he was being heard. If there was anyone out there worth praying to, they wouldn't have let this happen to start with, but he prayed anyway.

When the second tray was picked up, the door banged loudly three times, a few moments after the tray was removed. The slot worked up and down. Peter realized he still had the empty plastic pouch next to him. He scurried over to put it outside the slot. It worked again a minute or two later, and the hook slipped inside, snagged the spent container, and pulled it out. He would be allowed to keep nothing - not even a bit of trash.

A third tray was delivered forever later. It contained chili again. His stomach roiled just thinking about it. Once more, all he did was drink the odd, metallic-flavored water. They really needed a better filtration system, he thought. He lay on the platform as time passed. He fell into a stupor, because it wasn't really sleep. His eyes were open, staring at the door.

He didn't know if he was having a nightmare, or if it was real, but time seemed to skip forward and suddenly Sylar was standing before him. He jumped up, fueled by fear. Close on its heels was anger and a white hot rage that knew no bounds. A moment later he threw himself at the specter of his foe in a berserk fury. This was apparently not unexpected, because Sylar caught him easily before he ever got to him. It might be a nightmare, but it was also very real. He was slammed against a wall and left there until he calmed down minutes later.

"Fucking rapist," he fumed. "I hate you. I hate you! You deserve to die. You know what you did was wrong. That's why you couldn't keep it up. You _knew_ it was wrong and you did it anyway. Fucking rapist." Peter glared at him, incensed.

"Well …" Sylar gave a small shrug. "Yes. But that doesn't change what I want from you."

"You going to rape me again? Huh?" Peter challenged.

"No. Not like _that_, anyway."

Ice ran through Peter's veins. If not like that, then _how?_ His breathing sped up and for a moment, he couldn't sense anything. He must have blacked out. He came to, still held against the wall, but Sylar was much closer to him, looking at him with cocked head and quizzical expression. Peter jerked back against the wall. "Get away from me!" Fear infused his voice.

Sylar obediently took a step back, which made Peter blink in confusion. He began speaking though, saying, "I'm going to give you a choice, Peter."

"A choice?" he burst out hysterically before Sylar could go on. "_I don't want you!_ I made that crystal clear. There's no choice! I didn't want it. No, N-O, NO!"

"Shut up!"

Peter felt an abrupt pressure on his throat and he shut his mouth. The pressure faded without choking him for more than a second. He swallowed convulsively, breathing hard.

"_As I was saying_, I'm going to give you a choice. We can fuck, and you _**will**_ let me do it - you'll even pretend to like it and you won't mouth off about _rape_… or I'll hurt you some other way until I tire of it. Tomorrow I'll come back and make you the same offer - every day, until I get bored. I am a very patient man, so that might take a while. You can let me fuck you, or you can suffer some other way. That's your choice."

"I'm not going to pretend to like it." The very idea made him ill.

"Fine." Sylar moved a hand and lacerations appeared on Peter's chest. They made thin vertical lines that raced down from his collarbone to the end of his ribcage. He screamed. Sylar stepped closer to punch him in the gut, making his stomach seize and he retched again. Sylar slapped him so hard his teeth bit into the inside of his cheeks and he split his lips. He cut his forehead in some mockery of what he'd done years before. Blood ran down Peter's face and into his eyes. Sylar wreathed his hands in blue fire and twined his fingers with Peter's until the flesh began to boil. That was the worst and even after Sylar stopped it, Peter kept screaming from the pain until he lost his voice. He slapped him a few more times, pummeled him idly with telekinesis and sliced up the bottoms of his feet.

Peter collapsed to the floor when Sylar deigned to allow it. It had taken very little time. Peter's body quaked. His mind was full of nothing but the buzz of pain. Sylar bent over him and said, "I suspect that's about as long as I'd have needed to fuck you, had you cooperated. But now I'm going to leave you like this for the next day. None of your injuries are the least bit lethal, but most of them are going to continue to hurt like hell. Think about your choice. You'll get another chance tomorrow."

A wordless surge of hate formed in Peter's head, but he didn't try to articulate it. He told himself he didn't bother. In reality, he didn't dare. Sylar stood and walked away.

* * *

Peter didn't rise from the bare concrete, though he considered it many times. Food trays came and went. He didn't partake of any of them - not even the water. He just lay there and shivered, devoid of hope. Sometime after the third tray had been taken away, he realized he must be getting a fever, because he was sweating and chilling now. He was profoundly miserable. On the rare occasion that he could think straight, he was faintly happy that he was too messed up to contemplate his situation too much.

He drifted in and out of consciousness. In a dream, someone was petting his hair and making his ills go away one by one. Each hurt faded and vanished. A familiar voice droned on, saying kind things, telling him it would be okay. The fever had broken and he felt warm and alive for the first time in far too long. He blinked up at the angel aiding him, only to find that his twisted brain had put Sylar's face on the merciful being. A second later, he realized he was awake, and that really _was_ Sylar.

He jerked up and scrambled away as fast as he could, which was pretty damn fast. His hands were no longer blistered. His feet were whole. His gut didn't hurt. Even his asshole felt better. He licked his lips where they'd been split before.

"I healed you," Sylar said unnecessarily.

With the renewed health, came a sudden and vicious surge of hatred. He felt like his abilities were dancing at the edge of his reach, almost accessible. "Fuck you!"

"Is that your choice?" Sylar looked amused.

"I hate you! I am _**never**_ going to willingly let you-" He was cut off and slammed against the wall again. Sylar approached him, hands alight with fire. As the blue light danced over Peter's skin, the memory of the last twenty-four hours crystallized in his mind. He'd been an idiot. A little fucking was better than suffering for a full day. Surely if he cooperated it wouldn't hurt as much. Lots of people had anal sex because they liked it. He hated himself for breaking so soon, but his self-loathing didn't stand a chance against his fear. He started begging. "Please, no! I'll do it! I'll do you! NO!"

He struggled in vain, again reaching for his abilities. They seemed just right at the tip of his fingertips. If he could only get a grip on any one, the rest would come tumbling after, he was sure. Sylar had stopped though, just inches from him. The killer looked at him with cocked head. "I'm sorry, Peter, but you only get one chance each day. You don't get to change your mind in the middle. Think about your choice. You'll get another chance tomorrow." And he began, putting his flame-shrouded hands against him. Peter's efforts to summon his powers ended as he screamed in agony.

Sylar paused and looked at the angry red hand prints now gracing Peter's chest. They were fading slowly, like he hadn't put as much power into them as before. "Hm. There is one thing you need though, which is liquids. If I get you some water, will you drink it?"

"Yes, yes!" Anything for a respite, even though the pain was dissipating surprisingly quickly.

Sylar dumped him unceremoniously on the floor and left, phasing out through the door. He returned shortly and tossed two pouches of water to him. "You didn't drink anything yesterday, did you?"

Peter shook his head, tearing into the pouch with shaking hands. He _was_ very thirsty. Sylar watched him, one finger to his lips. He waited patiently until Peter had drank both dry. Peter realized, too late, he should have done it more slowly. He looked from the empty pouches to Sylar, trying to decide what he should do - be defiant, beg for mercy, or offer himself. Sylar smashed him against the wall before he made up his mind. He tried begging. It didn't help. His abilities made no further showing either. Whatever condition had made them briefly, though ephemerally, present in his mind had passed.

There were more burns this time and fewer cuts. Sylar didn't punch him in the gut or do anything that would directly inhibit his gastrointestinal tract, but he did electrocute him a few times. After he dumped him to the floor, he said, "Try to drink something today, and better yet, eat. You'll need your strength. There's only so much my healing can do for you."

Peter nodded brokenly. He managed to crawl to the platform and laboriously get himself on it as Sylar left. He felt perversely grateful that the torture hadn't been as bad as the day before. He was beaten though. Every movement hurt, every joint felt like it was on fire from within. His skin was littered with places Sylar had touched him, leaving welts and blistered patches in the shape of hands, possessing him even while Sylar wasn't in the room.

Later, he did eat a little, mechanically, and he drank. He spent his time in something of a stupor, but he had come to realize that the three meals were brought close together and there was a longer gap between them and the next set of three. He used this to mark 'day' and 'night.' It seemed to be the only thing he'd managed to accomplish so far. He clung to that tiny, fragile success as the night stretched on towards morning. 'Morning' as he thought of it now, was when Sylar had arrived the previous two days.


	3. The Carrot

As expected, Sylar phased in near the end of 'night.' Peter struggled up to sitting. He didn't know how he was going to pretend to enjoy sex with his body torn up like it was. Sylar walked right up to him (and why shouldn't he? He obviously regenerated and Peter couldn't hurt him when he was healthy, much less now. Peter's attacks on him had merely been annoying and inconvenient.) Sylar looked him over and began touching the injuries, one at a time, making them fade off Peter's body and bringing surcease of pain. Peter wanted to flinch away. He wanted to say he didn't need it. He wanted to tell the man to go fuck himself again. Instead he sagged, his head hanging. Well, this would make the sex easier.

"Your choice?" Sylar asked curtly.

Head still down, Peter mumbled something.

"Louder."

Peter swallowed. "I said I'll let you fuck me."

"Good." Sylar ran his finger along Peter's jaw, brushing against several day's worth of scruffy growth and a little bit of matted blood.

Just that touch was too much. Peter choked, terror running through him suddenly as it hit home that he was going to allow a repeat of the assault he'd suffered a few days before. "Oh God," he barely got out, trying and failing to suppress his flinch from the man this time. All he could think about was how he would be too terrified to do it and he'd be tortured again, or raped forcibly again, and he didn't know which was worse.

"It's okay," Sylar said gently. "I'll make it as okay as I can for you." He put his arms around Peter, making Peter jerk back against the encircling limbs.

Peter began shaking again. "There's no 'okay' you can make of this."

"Yes, there is. Yes there is. Calm down." He tightened his embrace, pulling Peter to him. Peter was tense all over and trembling. He bit his lip. Sylar told him, "Shh. Shh. We'll just take a little bit to calm down before we do anything, okay?"

Peter bit his lip harder, trying to get back in control of himself. He couldn't push the man away because he'd be tortured, but if he didn't, he was going to be raped. Again. He felt like he was about to have a fit, or convulse, or become truly hysterical like he'd seen the occasional mentally deranged patient back when he'd been a paramedic. He was certain that any of those reactions would gain him another day of agony. He breathed roughly and kept trembling, despite his efforts.

"Stop it!" Sylar snapped. "Don't you dare cry again. I've had enough of that."

Peter nodded and tucked his head down. He pushed Sylar away from him, which, oddly, worked. The killer released him from his embrace and took a step back. Getting that tiny victory heartened Peter enormously. He'd accomplished something. He'd defended his space; he'd asserted his will regarding how his body was to be used and it had been respected. His shaking faded and the hitches in his breathing evened out.

"What can I do to help you?" Sylar asked, apparently oblivious that he already had.

"I just want you out of here," Peter whispered hoarsely. "Just fuck me and go. Please. Please, Sylar. I-"

"Shut up." Peter did instantly. Sylar waited a long beat before going on in an infuriatingly reasonable tone of voice, "There were rules, remember? You have to pretend to like it. That means you don't tell me you want me to leave."

Peter nodded rapidly. The only way he was getting through this intact was through appeasement, though he had no idea what was on the other side that might be worth it.

Sylar came closer, reaching out and touching his shoulder lightly. "I won't do it very long. I'll try to keep this brief for you."

Peter nodded again, not trusting himself to speak even if he knew what to say to that. His rapist was going to be considerate with him. Great. Sylar took a long, deep breath. "I'm going to go get a cloth and clean you up." He left. For several minutes, Peter had the room to himself. He dispelled his tremors and tried to focus on the goal - of getting Sylar off so he'd leave him alone.

The man returned with a wet cloth and a plastic bowl. Peter stared at it dumbly, trying to think of how this contributed to the goal. His concentration, of which he'd had a shred of while alone, was instantly shot; his half-formed plans forgotten immediately. Sylar took up the cloth and put his hand on Peter's shoulder, eliciting another flinch. He cocked his head, lifted his brows and lofted the rag. Peter looked from it to Sylar's face and then down. He didn't know what to say or do, so he did and said nothing.

Sylar lifted his chin and cleaned the blood, tears, vomit and snot off his face with steady, strong strokes. Peter realized he must have looked horrible - too horrible for even a torturing rapist psycho serial killer to want to fuck. It occurred to him that he could soil himself determinedly and Sylar probably wouldn't touch him. Given that he'd spent the last two days in misery from what he was pretty sure was actually very light physical torture, he suspected that would not lead to a better alternative than what was about to happen to him. He looked down at himself. His body was streaked with blood. He'd been killed many times and not looked so bad. Sylar handed him the cloth and said, "Clean your rear end and your privates."

Peter obeyed silently. When he was done, he folded that part inward and used the newly exposed portion to clean his chest and stomach, then his hands and wrists. It was starting to smear after that. Perversely, his appearance bothered him – it was one of the few things he had. He wouldn't try soiling himself. Not unless it got worse - a lot worse. Sylar put the rag in the bowl and pushed them out of the way.

Peter sat on the edge of the platform, not sure what to do next. Sylar stood next to him, his leg against Peter's knee, his hand on his shoulder. Peter felt warm where they were touching. He hadn't felt warmth for days and running a wet cloth over himself hadn't helped. He shivered, which had nothing to do with nerves at the moment. Sylar put his arm over Peter's shoulders and his other hand against his stomach. Peter tensed and asked roughly, "What are you doing?"

"First, I get you off."

"Me?" he said in anger and dismay. He wanted to say there was no way in hell he was even remotely turned on by anything going on here. He was scared out of his wits and beginning to feel stirrings of rage in his gut. But he couldn't figure out how to say that, that wouldn't be against the ridiculous 'rules.'

"Yes, you. First. It's a requirement."

He shook his head. "I… I can't," he said in a voice shaking with mixed emotions.

"Yes, you can. You're healthy. I've healed you. All you need to do is think the right thoughts." Sylar's hand stroked a slow, small circle on his belly. Peter tried recoil from that touch but he couldn't without actually moving away. He'd made his decision, earlier, that this was better than the physical torture. He set his teeth in determination. He could do this. Sylar told him, "Now, you don't have to think of me. Think of someone else, someone you liked, someone who turned you on. Think of how sexy they were and how much you wanted them. That's all you have to do."

It was peculiar advice for someone who wanted you to pretend you liked them. Sylar kept rubbing his stomach in slowly larger and larger circles. He wondered if honesty would get him anywhere here or if Sylar was too far around the crazy bend for that to work. "Sylar… I can't… men can't… not when they're… I'm…" He shook his head and started to shake again.

"Stop that," Sylar said in a warning tone, gripping his shoulder more firmly. All the pain of the previous two days flashed through Peter's head as motivation. There had to be a way. There had to be. Peter swallowed and tried to think.

He thought of Nathan, not because they'd ever had anything sexual - they hadn't; he wasn't a pervert - but because Nathan loved him. He wanted to protect him. He'd taken care of him. He'd held him - even a little like this, with his arm over his shoulders. It was just like this was Nathan here, telling him it was okay, that it was going to be okay.

Peter took a deep breath and let it out shakily. He thought of his mother holding him when he was little, hugging him warmly when he was older, how she had sat next to him and put her arm over his shoulders like this when he told her about how Jolee had broken up with him. He'd even cried then. He slowly leaned his head over against Sylar's chest, remembering how he'd sobbed his teenaged heart out and she'd listened as only a mother could.

Even his dad had put his arm over his shoulders like this. He remembered standing together with him at Nathan's graduation, with his father's arm over his shoulders and for a little while, he'd been able to forget his father's disappointment that Peter wasn't taking a similar path. They were a family, celebrating successes, and they were strong. All of these people had loved him. None of them would have ever allowed anything to happen to him like what had. They would have protected him. Just thinking about them calmed him and made things more bearable.

Peter took another deep breath. Sylar's hand had stopped circling and was now tracing idly up and down the top of his thighs. Peter reached down and guided it to him, because it was better if he had some illusion of control, rather than waiting until Sylar lost patience and did it himself.

Peter thought he could manage this. He shut his eyes and tuned out everything he could. Sylar's hand gripped him loosely at first, getting a feel for how he reacted, and stroking slowly. Peter thought about a couple girls he had nearly had a threesome with in college, until the asshole down the hall had come banging on the door and making a scene and one of the girls had bailed. He thought about what would have happened if they hadn't been interrupted. It would have been one of _them_ stroking him.

He shifted a little, getting hard. The hand manipulating him (he didn't think of it as 'Sylar's' hand - just 'the' hand) moved with more confidence, pacing surprising well with what he needed. He thought about how the hand job would have progressed to at least one blow job. He remembered their faces, their hair - he filled in details on their outfits. He was trying to decide which one of them he would have had sex with first when Sylar changed his grip and began pumping him fast and hard, twisting at the end. The fantasy, and everything else, vanished. All he had left was the sensation and he let it drown him, afraid to think about anything else. He came a moment later.

He panted against the front of Sylar's shirt. He was exhausted and wrung out, more emotionally than physically. The mental effort his fantasy had taken had sapped his will. He knew what was coming next and he didn't want it. He wanted to cry. He wanted to hide. He knew he ought to be putting up a brave face and maybe even spitting in Sylar's face, but that wasn't the choice he'd made. And disgustingly, he was finding a visceral comfort in the body next to his that was warm, alive and not hurting him. He felt deeply unsettled.

It was torture one way or another, he realized. He'd merely picked psychological over physical, but it was still torture. Even thinking that, he was sure he didn't want to go back to the physical. He was too tired at the moment. His brain was getting numb from being on high alert too long.

"Come on, to the edge here," Sylar directed. Peter couldn't think, so he scooted over as directed. Sylar opened his pants and removed himself. Apparently getting Peter off had aroused him because he was fully hard. Either that, or he was just looking forward to this a lot. Maybe both.

In his head, Peter didn't feel anything. He was numb and calm. Everything was quiet. For some reason, his body was having a different reaction. It was panting again. It shuddered when Sylar got out the lube. Sylar hesitated at that and said, "Control yourself."

Peter stared at him blankly. He had no idea who was controlling his body. Things were happening - it was reacting. He felt disconnected from the process. He watched with too-wide eyes as Sylar slathered the lubricant over himself, then made a fist for a moment. Peter tried to speak, but all he did was make a terrified squeak. Surely he didn't have to take his fist…?

"Shh, shh, it's okay."

"What are you doing?" Peter's voice came out embarrassingly high.

Sylar looked down and then laughed a little. "It's okay, Peter. I'm just warming it for you. Here." He opened his hand and rubbed it on. It wasn't body temperature, but it wasn't the distressing coolness he'd had before.

"Okay, okay," Peter said, nodding as he understood.

Sylar began to massage his anus. Peter stared off into space, thinking nothing at all. Sylar kissed his cheek and his stomach knotted so hard he nearly doubled over. Sylar pulled him back up and looked at him, eyes narrowed. Peter was still breathing fast and shallow, eyes glazed. Sylar shook him a little and of all things, blew in his face. Peter jumped. He focused on the man. "Have you ever done this before?" Sylar asked conversationally.

Peter stared at him like he'd never seen Sylar before. Slick, wet fingers played steadily across him. He could feel a faint vibration to his muscles, like they were trying to build up to trembling again. On impulse, he put his hands around Sylar's neck, linking them behind him, hanging onto him. "You," he got out. "And… before, fingers. Just- just two. Girlfriend."

"Ever been with a man?"

"You. And … some blow jobs." Peter had been attracted to a few guys, but it never went anywhere. It wasn't allowed for a Petrelli, even for the younger, rebellious son. And so he'd dated women exclusively, though that didn't prevent the occasional emotionally void hookup when he was in college, or the unexpressed yearning he felt from time to time.

"Hm. Here's one finger." Sylar was using enough lube that it slid in fairly easily, even if Peter yelped and jumped, trying to get away. "Stop it!" he snapped and Peter froze up. "Now relax," Sylar commanded with a voice that was far from relaxing. Realizing this, he softened his tone. "It's okay. Just relax. It's just a finger."

"Why aren't you just f-fucking me? Is this fun?" Peter bit out angrily. He couldn't figure out what Sylar got out of this part. It was taking forever. Sylar had promised he'd make it quick. Peter just wanted it to be over already. Instead he had the unwanted, sexual sensation of something moving in and out of an orifice he was only familiar with things moving out of. It wasn't painful, really, but he didn't want it happening. What he wanted had so little to do with this scene.

"I'm prepping you, Peter. So it doesn't hurt as bad. Do you want it to hurt?" Peter shook his head fast. "Then let me do this. Second finger, coming in. You've had two before, you said." Peter nodded. It hardly mattered that he'd had two before - it had been years since then, and it had only been experimentation, not a regular thing. Sylar worked the other in as Peter stiffened and breathed out hard. He put his forehead against Sylar's shoulder and tried to check out mentally. It wasn't very hard, even if he wasn't allowed to stay that way very long. He just let his mind crash. As he did, he relaxed. Sylar worked him steadily, ringing him, pulling at his opening, being methodical. Peter ignored it. It would end when it would end and then it would be over. All he had to do was last until then.

"Third finger." This time Peter merely twitched. He tightened his grip around the other man's neck and told himself how much better this was than being burned or cut or beaten. Sylar worked him with a persistence that gave credence to his self-description of being a patient man. Peter didn't care. He was sore already.

"Okay," Sylar said, "Going to switch. Scoot just a little more here." He maneuvered Peter that last inch over and applied more lube. He lined himself up and pushed in immediately, supporting him somewhat with hands under Peter's thighs. Sylar must have picked up enhanced strength somewhere, because he carried most of Peter's weight with ease. That was hardly surprising - it was a common ability and Sylar had a slew of them.

Peter tensed and whimpered, unable to stay in a disconnected daze when something hot and long and bigger than fingers entered him. He had to admit it didn't feel anything like before. At least, not until Sylar started moving, then it burned and pulled and hurt some. It still wasn't nearly as bad. He curled his fingers into Sylar's back, letting them bite into the skin as he hung on. He wished he had claws to really hurt the man.

Sylar kissed the side of his head and Peter felt sick again. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to figure out what to do with his legs. Finally he wrapped them around the other man's hips. Peter was dead silent other than huffing and pained breaths. He clung to Sylar with white knuckles.

For his part, Sylar lasted less than fifty strokes. If the grunting and tight breathing was any indication, this time it was real. Peter wasn't sure whether to be disgusted - that Sylar had just spunked in his ass; or relieved - that Sylar clearly preferred his victims willing, or at least with the appearance of willingness. But either way, it was over.

Sylar pulled out and put himself away. Peter stared down, watching. The other man pulled the bowl over to him and used the cloth to wipe Peter's ass, making Peter's eyes go wide that he'd even bother. Or maybe he just wanted him clean for when he fucked him next time.

"You did great," Sylar whispered to him. "I'll leave you alone now." He turned and headed towards the door, taking the bowl with him. He looked back. "Do you want some clothes?"

"Yes," Peter said immediately, his mind still reeling from everything. Sylar nodded and walked out.

Peter sagged down onto his side, his brain empty and his butt tingling. It was sore and it felt weird, but it didn't hurt - not in the range of pain he'd experienced for the last few days, or really the last several years. He'd been killed many times and shot and stabbed and had debilitating injuries. Physically, this was nothing.

Emotionally, he didn't know what to make of everything. He just kept thinking he felt a hell of a lot better than he had this time the day before. Very shortly, the slot went up and a tray was put through. On it was the same plastic bowl, but now with a clean wet cloth in it, and a small stack of folded clothes. Peter hurried to it. He washed his body down, getting himself as clean as possible, before dutifully replacing the bowl and rag on the tray. Of the clothes, he found he now had a t-shirt and pajama pants - no underwear, no socks. He put on what he had been given, thinking about how he'd whored himself for a few clothes and the ability to keep down three meals. Well, that and freedom from pain for a day, which was pretty damn valuable. Was it worth it?

The slot opened while he was standing there trying to answer that question. The tray was taken away. Immediately it was replaced with another, bearing a bowl of oatmeal and a packet of water. It had been too long since he'd eaten. It tasted wonderful. Even the water was good, although it still tasted funny. As soon as he was done, he replaced the tray and lay down on the mat, falling asleep almost instantly. He woke for lunch - pea soup, and again oddly good - and then spent the rest of the day awake, pondering. He was free to ponder. He was _able_ to ponder. He was conscious to ponder and not catatonic with fear or pain. He could eat, and drink, which were both necessary if he was going to survive. He wanted to survive, despite what had happened. He considered what he had gained for letting Sylar fuck him.

He'd have another "choice" tomorrow and he was certain he was going to pick sex. He thought about something he'd heard about advice for soldiers, if they were caught by terrorists, which was basically to comply completely with their demands. They were to withhold information for the first six to eight hours if they could, but after that, tell them anything, do anything. It made him feel a little better about himself, about choosing sex over pain, that there were rules for this sort of thing and by those rules, he hadn't done anything wrong. No one would blame him.

_Fucking rapist. How long does he think he's going to keep me here? Or is he going to kill me when he's done? What the hell is going on with the kissing? Was that just to gross me out? What about the prepping?_ It was disgusting to have the other man's fingers in him in addition to the apparent necessity of his cock. He'd rather minimize the contact he had to make with the killer. _Maybe I can prep myself. Do I __**have**__ to let him jerk me off? Why does he have rules for this? Has he done this to other people?_

Questions danced in Peter's head, now that he was clear-headed enough to think them. He had no answers though.


	4. The Bribe

Sylar returned the next morning, regular as clockwork. He had with him an apple and an extra pouch of water. Peter slid off the platform immediately. He looked at the two objects, which Sylar set down on the far end of it. Peter snorted. "Is that what I get for having sex with you? A piece of fruit and some water?"

Sylar stared at him for a moment in disbelief and then snarled, backhanding him so hard Peter was knocked to the floor and his lip bloodied. "What you get for having sex with me is _treated well!_ If that's not enough, I can take care of that."

Peter's moronic bravado, inflated by a whole day of feeling relatively good, vanished in a heartbeat and he broke. _No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, that was stupid, oh God please don't torture me again, just fuck me, I'll do anything…_ Peter said nothing though. He cowered and sniveled on the floor and said nothing at all. He was disgusted with himself, appalled at how only a single blow and a vague threat sent his inner monologue skittering in fear. Less than a week before he'd been a fighter and one of the roughest customers in the Resistance. Or, at least, he assumed it had only been a week.

Sylar's hand was extended towards him like the beginning of telekinesis. Peter shut his eyes and bowed his head, shaking and waiting for everything to start again. He was so relatively powerless than there was nothing to do but accept it. _I am so sorry_. He heard footsteps stalking away and looked up in time to see Sylar phase through the door.

He stayed frozen to the floor for some minutes, not sure what he should do, other than find some way to convince himself not to piss Sylar off next time, if there was a next time. Under the circumstances, smarting off to his captor had to rank in the top ten stupid things Peter had ever done, and considering that he'd tossed himself off a fifteen story building once just to prove a point, he had some doozies. Finally though, he got tired of kneeling on the floor, so he stood up. Sylar still hadn't come back. The apple and extra water pouch was still there.

Peter took the apple. It was delicious, except that his teeth were a little loose from being hit in the face. He crouched on the opposite side of the platform and ate it very slowly, even the core. There was nothing left but a one inch bit of stem when he was done. He drank the water. He hadn't been getting enough with the meals. He was getting dehydrated so it was appreciated. His lips hurt now. Compared to what could have happened, what Sylar had _almost_ done to him, it was minor. Peter puzzled over what had stayed Sylar's hand there. It was a perfect opportunity to beat into his captive that Peter was not allowed to make observations like that. But no, he'd just stalked off. Huh.

To his surprise, Sylar didn't come back that day. He slept restlessly. When the man showed up (empty handed this time), Peter jumped to his feet and immediately cringed before him. This was intentional and deliberate. Peter had had a lot of time to consider his options and nothing to distract him from thinking. "I pick sex. How do you want me?" He glanced up to see a put off expression on Sylar's face. There was a very long pause, which made Peter think that he'd been right to offer himself immediately.

"Turn around."

Peter did, bending over and bracing his hands on the platform.

Sylar stood behind him and played with his buttocks idly. Peter shivered at the touch, but that was all. He was in a more stable frame of mind and he was hoping - hoping with some certainty - that this time would be similar to the last and not purely god-awful like the first. Sylar threatened, "You don't want me to bend you over that and hold you there again with telekinesis?"

"Please, no." Peter breathed harder just at the suggestion, but there was an edge of fight in his voice, some shred of defiance.

"Did you prefer it when I tried to make it better?"

"Yes." Peter hunched his shoulders. He didn't want to be saying yes to this monster.

"Do you want me to do that again?"

He swallowed roughly. What he wanted was for Sylar to quit talking and just do whatever it was he was going to do. That way Peter wasn't agreeing to it - he wasn't bargaining. It was just something that happened to him. Making him choose from options made him a party to it and even if it gave him some control, it also gave him a sense of responsibility and guilt he didn't want. He realized Sylar was waiting for an answer. He hung his head. "Yes."

Voice softer, Sylar said, "Okay." He hooked his thumbs into Peter's pajama bottoms and pulled them down, followed by stepping out of his own pants. A few moments later, he leaned forward, with his cock semi-erect against the crack of Peter's ass. He reached around for Peter's dick, finding it limp. "Think about whatever you need to think about. I'm going to jerk you off."

Peter nodded again. It took him a while to find a fantasy that worked for him, with the heat of Sylar's groin cupping his butt. It was distracting, to say the least, and disturbing because it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Sylar pulled patiently at him, tugging and manipulating with a fair degree of skill. Peter finally thought of something and ran with it. Long minutes later, he bucked slightly, his come hitting the side of the platform.

"Good." Sylar had him step out of one side of his bottoms and spread his legs. He lubed him heavily, leaning over to kiss his back again.

Peter flinched from that. "Please don't kiss me. Please don't." _It makes me sick._

To Peter's surprise, Sylar straightened and didn't try again. He focused on Peter's rear end, worked him as thoroughly as before, and entered him eventually. He fucked him rather slowly, gripping his hips, massaging them a little, and lasting longer - not that Peter appreciated the duration at all. Sylar pulled out and wiped himself up, then Peter, with some handkerchief or other cloth he'd presumably brought for the purpose.

Sylar stood there quietly until Peter glanced back and then pulled his clothes back on. At a loss as to what to do, he got up on the platform and sat there. Sylar seemed to be staring at where he'd jizzed on the platform. Finally he said, "Next time, you're going to have to let me kiss you. Be ready for that."

Peter swallowed and nodded. He found his voice and said, "Thank you for letting me know." He felt stupid for saying it. 'Next time you're going to violate me a different way - oh, thank you for telling me sir!' It was a gross thing to express gratitude for. He said it anyway. He wondered if Sylar was actually trying to be nice somewhere in here, in this sick fantasy he was playing out with Peter's body. It was either that, or this was some perverse PsyOps that Peter couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around.

"You're welcome." Sylar was still staring at the come. The scrutiny was odd enough that Peter leaned over and looked at it too. Maybe he'd get some of his toilet paper later and wipe it up. He didn't have very much toilet paper though and it wasn't exactly a high fiber diet. Sylar said haltingly, "I am … willing to bribe you to make you act better. Food, things … I won't get you anything I think you'll cause problems with. Thank you for letting me fuck you today. What would you like for that?" He didn't make eye contact, seeming more humiliated than Peter was by the situation.

Peter blinked at him. Sylar was still staring down, shoulders a little hunched. _Does the bastard actually feel guilty for raping me? Is that what this is about? _Peter felt a surge of rage. He bottled it up immediately, before that got him into trouble.

If he could have anything … "Underwear and socks." Sylar nodded and started to leave. "Wait! A blanket, please? And, and make it warmer in here." He stopped there, worried he was asking for too much. Last time Sylar had thought an appropriate payment was an apple and water. Peter was asking for much more, but the constant coolness bothered him more than anything else. It kept him from sleeping properly, leaving him shivering when he tried to rest.

Sylar looked back at him with a blank expression, then nodded and left. It was very shortly that Peter felt the room warm to a comfortable temperature. A little while after that, he received socks and underwear, along with a thin blanket and, unasked for, a tiny pillow like the ones they provided on long airplane flights. Peter shook his head at how bizarrely grateful he felt. This was twisted - totally twisted.

* * *

Sylar brought him a candy bar, unwrapped, which made Peter wonder what the hell they thought he was going to do that was dangerous with a freaking candy wrapper. Obviously, he hadn't paid attention to the right TV shows or whatever to learn prison secrets. He couldn't imagine what he would do with a wrapper. Maybe MacGyver would know, but Peter didn't.

Still, the idea of eating the chocolate made him salivate. Just like he wasn't getting enough water, he didn't think he was getting enough calories either. It seemed like a simple enough psychological ploy - underfeed and underhydrate, making an inmate dependent on his captor to meet basic needs. But not so dependent that he wouldn't survive if support was withdrawn for a few days, from time to time. It was a built-in punishment for non-compliance. Peter could feel the tickling in the back of his head as the survival-oriented part of his brain was busily telling him which side of his bread was buttered.

For now though, he had to earn it. He was sitting on the platform with Sylar between his legs. They weren't having sex. Sylar was touching him softly, whispering demented nonsense ("Peter, you're good, thank you, is this good? I like fucking you, you like it? Good, that's good, Peter, I like touching you like this, kissing you, your skin is so smooth here …") and thankfully not requiring a response. Sylar was kissing him with light pecks over his forehead and cheeks. Peter had expected to feel nauseated. Instead he just felt put upon, and impatient for his candy bar. He wondered what the hell was happening to his mind that he was getting tolerant of this so fast.

"This isn't that bad, is it?" Sylar asked in a more direct tone than his psycho endearments (psycho because of the context - as endearments went they were fine, Peter supposed).

Peter looked at him, pulling his thoughts back from thinking about how he wouldn't even get to read and reread the ingredients listing for the sweet. "Are you… honestly asking?"

"Yes." Sylar was right in his face, studying him.

It occurred to Peter, not for the first time, that here was his captor, his worst enemy, Nathan's murderer and untold others … between his legs, caressing his face. And Peter was, at the moment, relaxed about it. Some part of him had given up fighting. He'd like to hope that he was just biding his time, waiting for an opportunity. He sure hoped that was the case, and he hadn't simply been beaten into submission. He hoped it would take more to turn him and that all that was going on right now was merely rational self-interest. Peter shook his head. "I can't imagine what you could do to make this whole thing worse."

Sylar's brows came together. "Then you have no imagination." At Peter's concerned look, Sylar cocked his head and said, "I could look like Nathan while I do you."

Peter swallowed suddenly to hold back the bile that threatened. _Now_ he felt ill. "Okay," he said quickly. "Thank you for not doing that. You're right. I have no imagination at all for this kind of thing." And he was very, very glad he did not. He thought he might have nightmares just from that one, casual comment of Sylar's. What sort of crap went through that psycho's brain for him to even _think _of something like that?

"Can I kiss your lips?" Sylar took Peter's chin and tilted it up. Said lips were still swollen from being backhanded the day before.

Peter didn't resist him, but he immediately said, "I'd prefer not. I mean, if you're still actually asking me. You'll have to tell me when I need to pretend again."

Sylar eyed Peter's lips like he might kiss them anyway. Peter certainly wasn't going to stop him. If he had to pick his battles, then arguing over _that_ wasn't where he was going to draw a line in the sand. At being fucked by the semblance of his brother - yes. Being kissed on the lips by Sylar, when he was already tolerating other kisses and quite a bit more - no. Sylar let go of his chin. "You need to be shaved anyway. I'll bring a cordless tomorrow and take care of that."

_Oh boy_. Peter sighed.

Sylar leaned in and kissed him on the tip of the nose. Peter allowed it. The other man lifted a single finger and touched Peter's mouth. "Hold still," he said when Peter jerked back. Peter huffed and did. He was getting more fearless, probably stupidly so, about displaying his displeasure with Sylar's proclivities. Sylar put his finger against Peter's lips and the lingering pain vanished, as did the swelling. "Is that better?" he asked softly.

Peter nodded.

Sylar ran his hands up Peter's sides and across his back. He leaned in and put his forehead on his shoulder. Peter considered, just for a moment, doing something rash like biting Sylar's ear off to prove that he wasn't defeated, that he still could fight. But it was pointless. It would regenerate and he would be punished for it - probably in some awful, imaginative manner Peter couldn't even think of. He sighed. Besides, what was Sylar really doing but hugging on him and being affectionate? It was just downright weird. Couldn't the man go find someone a little more receptive for this kind of thing?

Sylar straightened. "This is really all I need today. We don't have to have sex. But thank you for this." He reached up and traced the scar across Peter's face, making him frown severely at the serial killer. He didn't like having it touched, but again, this wasn't a battle he was going to pick to fight. Instead, Peter really studied the other man, hooking his feet abruptly behind Sylar's legs, preventing his easy departure. Sylar tilted his head at him. "What does this mean?" he asked of the unexpected entrapment.

"I'm just trying to figure you out." On a lark, he reached up and ran the back of one knuckle across Sylar's cheek. Sylar's expression cleared and his eyes widened. He kissed Peter soundly on the lips, but only for a moment because Peter shoved him away. "Stop that!" Peter felt suicidal enough to assert the boundary, realizing a second too late this might be a very, very bad idea.

Sylar scowled at him for the rejection and pointed at him threateningly. "Tomorrow you're going to kiss me. You're going to hug me. You're going to _really_ act like you want it. I haven't been requiring that. I _will_ tomorrow." He glared fiercely at Peter, who just watched him without judgment or change of expression. Sylar turned on his heel and stalked out.

_Huh_, Peter thought. He'd gotten away with pushing him away - that was surprising. Peter flopped down on the platform, snagging his candy bar. He'd lost the opportunity to ask for another bribe, so he supposed there was _some_ punishment for it. The proposed act didn't bother him. Sylar seemed to think it was a great threat, but compared to having his skin blistered or cut to tatters, or being taken by force, some hugging, kissing and pretending wasn't going to prey on Peter's mind much.

No, what was preying on Peter's mind was the suspicion that Sylar was in love with him.


	5. The Reprieve

The next day Sylar showed up with a cordless razor and a packet of water. Peter hopped off the platform immediately, on Sylar's side, and presented himself more or less, standing at what semblance of attention he could manage without being mocking. He'd never been in the military. Neither had Sylar, if you didn't count the default of being president. Peter was trying to show some modicum of respect, thinking that might be a good idea, since he'd smarted off to his captor the day before.

A little while after Sylar had left yesterday, Peter had become worried about letting the man leave in a snit like that. He suspected it would be best for both of them if he didn't force Sylar to make a habit of that. Peter had pondered how Sylar might not leave and instead remain and vent his frustrations in some other fashion – or worse yet, he might not come _back_. The silent, empty room was no distraction from his thoughts.

Sylar stopped in front of him and looked him up and down. Peter met his eyes uncertainly, looking away before it could seem like a challenge. This was the only human being he'd seen in more than a week. He was beginning to wonder if Sylar was the only human being he'd _ever_ see. His abilities still weren't coming back. Sylar hadn't bothered to ask him about the Resistance or for inside information about anything. He didn't seem to care. The only thing he seemed to care about was access to Peter's body, the illusion of cooperation … and maybe about Peter himself, crazy as that seemed.

Sylar nodded slightly and exhaled, looking away. His eye contact and his body language fairly shouted an apology, although of course Peter's did as well. Peter's though, was calculated. He didn't think Sylar's was.

Sylar lifted the razor. "Do you want me to do this?"

"No," Peter shook his head. "No. " He reached out and took the device, checking it over briefly. He turned it on. He looked at Sylar for a moment, feeling oddly like he didn't want the other man watching him grooming. So Peter turned and walked off to the side a little, keeping his back to the other man. He started on his neck and worked his way up with the buzzing instrument. He looked over once to see that Sylar was leaning against the platform, hands stuffed in his pockets, staring off at the far wall, giving him the privacy he wanted.

It was odd. Peter kept expecting Sylar to insist. He'd done enough of that right off the bat. But the more time passed, the less pushy the other man got. Peter didn't exactly have a lot of experience being the prisoner of crazy serial killers, but this seemed like the opposite pattern than it was supposed to be. He'd think that Sylar should be getting more and more impatient that he wasn't getting whatever it was he wanted out of Peter - information, cooperation, whatever. Okay, yeah, he was kind of demanding more in the way of cooperation, but he was also letting Peter push back a lot.

He walked back over, flipping the device off, and offered it to him. Sylar took it. Peter turned and looked at the extra pouch of water. That was appreciated. Sylar's hand on his butt wasn't, even though, and probably because, it made him breathe faster immediately. He stiffened and looked back.

"Pull your pants down. I'm going to shave you down there."

"You're … what?"

"Your crack is hairy. I don't like that. As for your front - do you have a preference?"

"Ah …" Peter looked down. He didn't know what he'd look like without hair. Like a kid, maybe? A bit of an overendowed kid. Or maybe he'd look like a porn star. All the associations that came to mind were negative. "Um … I'd rather you didn't?"

Sylar nodded agreeably. "Okay. Just the back then." He patted Peter on the side of the butt again, just as he had before. "Get your pants off."

Peter nodded and pulled them off, kicking them aside so they didn't get hairs in them and be itchy later. This was just phenomenally weird. Sylar told him, "I'll handle your cheeks, but you need to spread your legs." Peter complied. Sylar used telekinesis to pull him open. Peter grunted unhappily and gripped the edge of the platform. It was a little unsettling to have a buzzing, whirring set of miniature blades operating just inches from your equipment, skimming over some pretty sensitive territory right where they were at.

Sylar finished and set aside the razor, but didn't rise from where he was squatting on the floor. He brushed over the area in a businesslike fashion, getting any stray hair bits off. That was fine. Peter understood that. A moment later he blew on him though, and Peter didn't understand that at all. It made him jump, which was difficult when you have telekinesis holding you open. Until that moment, Peter hadn't realized how vulnerable the position made him. Sylar put a hand firmly on the side of his ass and blew on him again, a full breath this time. Peter tried to shift away, but the telekinesis was not allowing it.

"Please don't do that," Peter said.

"Does it feel good?"

Yes, it did. But that wasn't the point. "I don't want you to do it."

"Hm." Sylar leaned forward and chewed at one side of Peter's butt, taking the liberty as long as it was right there at face level.

"Please _don't_," Peter said more emphatically. "Sylar?" He didn't like this. He couldn't get away. It was disturbing and it was starting to trigger him.

The telekinesis faded and Peter got away from him immediately. He picked up his pants and underwear, looking at Sylar for a moment as the other man stood. Was he allowed to get dressed? Or did he have to submit to sex again? Sylar looked disappointed, but that was it. Peter put his clothes on.

When he was done, Sylar said, "Come here."

Peter swallowed and nodded, remembering Sylar's 'threat' from the day before. He'd been told there would be kissing. He pursed his lips, let out a short sigh and moved up in front of the taller man. Sylar bent his head to him. Peter pressed his lips pretty unimaginatively against Sylar's. It wasn't really a kiss and he knew it. Sylar's lips moved slightly and Peter jerked away. He frowned and set his teeth, glancing back. Sylar looked very disapproving, but that was all, for now.

Peter took a moment to take a deep breath and let it out, pleased inside that he was being given the opportunity to do this at his own pace, though he had no illusions about whether doing it at all was optional. He set himself and this time ran one hand up behind Sylar's head, earning him a pleasantly surprised raise of brows and softening of features. He pulled the man down and this time met his lips more properly, moving his gently against Sylar's. He got an immediate sound of encouragement.

For long moments, all they did was stand there and kiss chastely. Peter kept his eyes and mouth shut, trying not to think about who he was doing this with. It had been a long time since he'd kissed a man. Sylar's lips were fuller than he'd expected and he kept making these small happy noises that would have been endearing under other circumstances. Actually … they were kind of endearing anyway and Peter softened a little inside. He finally decided to hell with it. He might as well take the plunge and do this all the way, even though he'd been sort of waiting to see if Sylar's 'requirements' went that far. He parted his lips and let his tongue touch the other man's upper lip.

Sylar's breathing had been coming faster and harder and now it hitched suddenly. He shifted a foot and pressed forward, letting Peter find out that he was fully erect. Peter jerked away, glancing down apprehensively. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry," Sylar said, which struck Peter as asinine and a little rage-worthy given the situation, but he put it aside. Sylar leaned forward, not moving his feet this time, deliberately keeping his groin back. Peter thought about how, the day before, all he'd had to deal with was kissing - no sex. Maybe … he wouldn't have to today either?

He didn't know what to think of that, because his emotions were strangely mixed. So he ran his hand back up into Sylar's hair and leaned forward as well to kiss him, their bodies making an A shape, keeping a healthy space between them. Peter opened his mouth again, much sooner this time, and slipped his tongue within the other man's lips. Sylar groaned, his tongue touching back tentatively, very hesitantly, whining a little in the back of his throat like he was desperate for the affection. Peter brought his other hand up to cup the man's cheek. Actors managed this all the time. It wasn't that hard, he told himself, and really - it wasn't. Sylar's sounds were gratifying. Peter just kept his mind blank and … what the hell was Sylar doing?

He broke off for just a moment to look down. He'd opened his pants and was jerking himself off. Peter kissed him again immediately - not because he was trying not to think about that, but because Sylar was _jerking __**himself**__ off_ and Peter sure as hell didn't want to interrupt him. He wasn't fucking Peter. He wasn't demanding Peter let him fuck him. Okay, sure, in context he'd pretty much demanded Peter kiss him, but Peter would damn well rather kiss him than get penetrated without his consent. He kissed him hard and madly, feeling it as Sylar picked up the pace. The other man brought his free hand to Peter's face, but Peter twitched away from it so he dropped it to his shoulder. He crooned lightly into Peter's mouth and a few moments later his huffing turned to gasps as he came.

Peter fell back a little, letting his hand slide down Sylar's arm, not ending the contact immediately. He thought about how abruptly the other man had reacted the day before when Peter had touched him willingly. The kissing - if what he wanted was an illusion of willingness, well, Peter had just given him that and with a lot more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary. He wasn't real sure why he'd been so enthusiastic, just that it hadn't seemed that tough to get into it, it felt especially nice to have Sylar respond to him like that, and he thought he could get Sylar off rapidly. Whaddaya know - he could.

Sylar tucked himself away with the hand he'd used on himself. The other was very loosely wrapped around Peter's elbow, a mirror image of how Peter was holding him. When he was done, Sylar raised his eyes to Peter, looking oddly vulnerable, like he'd been caught doing something he knew he shouldn't.

Peter looked down - not at Sylar, or at his crotch, but sort of off to the side. He leaned in and then took a small step closer. Sylar sucked in air. Without looking at him, Peter slowly moved against him. He turned his head to the side and swallowed, then just let the line of his body press against Sylar's. Still winding down from his orgasm, Sylar put his hands very lightly around Peter, on his sides at first, then when that didn't get a flinch or ill reaction he moved them to his back in an actual, if very weak, hug.

Peter slowly let himself relax. He recalled a study - a cruel, inhumane experiment - that had been recounted in one of his university texts. A baby monkey had been taken from its mother and was offered two possible surrogates. One was a wire frame with a bottle and nipple. The other had no food, but was covered with a thick, terrycloth that simulated the fur of the mother monkey. The baby spent nearly all its time clinging to the cloth-covered surrogate, visiting the wire-frame one to nurse briefly before scrambling back to 'safety', where it was warm and comforted by what seemed like the touch of another of its kind.

He shut his eyes and let himself enjoy the embrace. Sick though the whole situation was, it had been a horrible, traumatic week and Peter wanted comfort very badly. More and more, Sylar had been acting like a human being and this - jacking himself off instead of forcing himself on Peter, when he clearly _could_ and _had_ forced himself on him before - Peter knew it was Stockholm syndrome or something, but he was stupidly grateful for the gesture.

It made him so bold that he turned his head a little bit and asked, "Can we … next time … just play Scrabble, or cards or give me a book to read and we can talk about it or something?"

Sylar started forward as if to kiss him on the side of the head, then refrained. "You don't want me touching you. I revolt you." He sounded miserable.

Peter sighed against him and leaned back so he could see his face. "This whole situation is bad." Sylar looked so despondent that Peter kissed him gently and of his own accord. It was tough to code Sylar as 'enemy' when Peter was standing there holding him, drawing succor from him and offering him comfort. He'd always been an empath, even before he got his ability.

The other man's eyes came up to his and a little light came back into his features. "Scrabble, huh?" Sylar asked.

"Yeah. I like Scrabble. Used to play it with Nathan a lot, when I was a kid and he was trying to figure out how to get me to do better in English. Used to play a lot with Ma, just because she liked it. It was her favorite game. Chess would be fine too, but I was never any good at it. Dad liked it." His voice had trailed off about halfway through until he was just muttering at the end. Sylar almost certainly did not care, even though he was standing there listening attentively. Peter was just rambling, wanting someone to listen to him while he talked. That was stupid, so he shut up.

Sylar nodded. "Scrabble it is."

* * *

Scrabble it was. Sylar showed up with a box tucked under his arm and even though he'd asked for it, Peter still blinked in surprise. Then he scrambled off the platform, trying to read if a game was a before or after intimacy deal. By the way Sylar paused and started opening the box, he guessed before. Peter threw his blanket down on the floor in one spot and the pillow across from it a ways. Too eager, he reached in the box and took out the board before the other man could sit down.

Sylar smiled slightly at Peter's enthusiasm and settled down on the blanket. He didn't seem put off. Peter sat on the pillow and set things up. "You've played Scrabble before, right?"

"Yes. My mother liked it a lot too." Sylar said quietly, proving he'd been paying attention. "That and Yahtzee."

"Really?" Peter gave half a smile. "What was she like?"

"My mother?" Sylar blinked at him, startled by the question.

"Yeah," Peter said, mixing the letter tiles. "We gotta talk about something, right? You don't have to answer. I could-" Peter looked up at his companion, wondering what was allowed and acceptable here. He decided to forge ahead. Sylar had been very accommodating, actually, of boldness. "I could talk about stuff if you don't want to. I just … You know, I'm lonely in here, and _bored_. Really, really bored." More lonely than bored, to be honest, but he didn't want to admit how soul-crushing it was to be all alone for at least twenty-three hours of every day, without even the sound of other life or anything interesting to look at. He pushed over the box top, which held the tiles. "Okay, pick a letter."

Sylar did. Peter took one. They compared. Peter went first. While he picked out his tiles and examined them, Sylar began to speak in a low, uncertain voice. "I liked my mother. She raised me alone for a while. She loved me. She was …" He laughed nervously, "She was a little crazy, but who isn't?" He looked at Peter penetratingly.

Peter nodded supportively. "My mother was, is, a certifiable nut case. She was always obsessing with Nathan and ignoring me. I loved her, and she loved me, but …" He shrugged.

"Yeah," Sylar nodded, getting the feel for the conversation. "Yeah. That's … that's how it was." He smiled for a moment, then started picking out his own tiles. "Minus the part about obsessing about Nathan, but she found other things to obsess over. She worked as a secretary for a while and she was really active in the church. Every spare moment was spent on volunteer work."

"Yeah? My mom volunteered some too, with the church. You guys were Catholic?"

Sylar nodded, examining his options on the game. "Yes. Irish Catholic." They discussed churches and schools and teachers and childhoods, staying carefully away from any topics that might spark disagreement or remind either of the current setting. Sylar trounced him pretty firmly in the game, which Peter didn't mind at all. He was sorry when Sylar declined to go best two out of three. He wasn't as upset as he thought he should have been when he contemplated the probable after-game activity. Peter replaced his blanket and pillow on the platform, lost in thought about the shift in his attitude.

Sylar was offering him something. Peter blinked, came back to himself and looked. It was a deck of cards in a paper sleeve. Sylar said, "I have to leave, but maybe you can play solitaire or something. Don't do anything wrong with these cards, Peter, or I'll have to take them away."

"I won't," Peter promised, taking the pack and shaking his head firmly. What the hell could he do with a pack of cards, anyway? Stop up the toilet? "Thank you." He was genuinely grateful even if he was a lot confused about his disappointment that Sylar was leaving immediately. Maybe it was just the looming specter of being alone – or maybe it was that he wouldn't be held and touched. That last reason scared him.

Sylar nodded and stood there awkwardly, Scrabble box in hand. "Can I kiss you good-bye? Please?" he asked so hesitantly and softly that it made Peter feel weird – obligated, sorry for him, and a little pleased, if he was honest with himself.

"Yeah." Sylar leaned in and kissed Peter's cheek for a long moment, then ducked his head a little and nuzzled him. Peter blinked and moved into it. He felt an odd twist of emotion in his gut and he put his hand on Sylar's side, thinking there had to be something wrong with him for responding to this.

Sylar gave his cheek another kiss – just a quick peck this time – and said, "Thank you." He left.

Peter shut his eyes and leaned back against the platform, feeling very, very unsettled. The situation was doing really strange things to his emotions, tangling him up. He almost felt like he missed the asshole.


	6. The Fantasy

The next time he came in, Sylar looked pissed. He was also empty-handed, which Peter felt a little resentful about. He narrowed his eyes at the man. Sylar told him, voice hard, "I'm going to have sex with you. Pick a position."

Peter pursed his lips, then looked down. He wasn't being given a choice and for some reason that hung in the air between them. Well … he wasn't really in any position to argue, though it sort of heartened him to know that he at least had the power to make the experience utterly miserable for Sylar. There wasn't any need for that, though. He looked at the platform that he was standing next to, then hitched up his leg and lifted himself onto it silently.

Sylar's eyes went up and down him, then he took a deep breath and walked over slowly. He stopped next to him for a moment. Peter spread his knees apart and Sylar sidled between them. The set of his shoulders eased a little.

Peter looked down and realized. "Um. My pants .."

"It's okay. Later." Sylar touched his chin and tilted it up with gentle pressure. Peter let himself relax and kissed him. He reached out and let his hands rest on Sylar's hips. Sylar licked along Peter's lips and the pissed-off look faded from his face. He ran his hands up Peter's sides. "Do you mind me touching you?" he asked as he kissed a slow trail from Peter's mouth to the corner of his jaw. He paused long enough to grumble, "Pretend, please."

"No." And really, he didn't mind. It was just a touch. "I don't have to pretend. It's okay. Kind of nice, actually." _I've definitely been cooped up in here alone for too long if I'm telling Sylar it's nice that he's touching me. _But it didn't matter. Peter ran his fingers under Sylar's waistband. He told himself that the quicker he got this over with, the better. It wasn't like he was eager or anything, he thought. It was just that if he was setting the pace, then he was in control. Right.

Sylar made a pleased noise and pressed up against him, making Peter very aware of just how pleased he was. The other man's mouth continued from the point of his jaw down his neck, then to his shoulder. Peter pulled away slightly from his mouth. Sylar's jaw tightened and he straightened. "Fine." He put his hand in the middle of Peter's chest and pushed him onto his back. He grabbed the waistband of the pajama pants and jerked them over Peter's rump.

"I'm sorry," Peter said, realizing he'd pissed him off by pulling away. The nasty look Sylar shot him confirmed this. His chest tightened – with fear, and unhappiness that he'd hacked the man off. His voice laden with emotion, Peter added, "I'm _really_ sorry."

Sylar hesitated with Peter's pants and underwear around his ankles now. He looked at him for a moment, then down at his hands. His face softened a little. He nodded. "Okay." He slipped the clothing off more carefully and set it aside. He pulled out a small bottle of lube.

Peter leaned up on his elbows and said, "Can I?"

"Can you what?"

"Um … do whatever? Prep?" He extended his hand partway towards the bottle. Sylar glanced at the bottle and handed it to him. Peter hadn't expected to be allowed. But he had been. He squirted some of the stuff onto his fingers and worked it around on them, then leaned to the side and reached down. He felt for the right spot. Sylar had just taken way too long at this step and Peter suspected strongly that he got off on it. Which wasn't really a problem, he supposed, but it didn't do anything for Peter.

Sylar leaned on the platform with one arm and watched as Peter plunged one finger in and out a few times. It went easily enough, really. He tried two. That was a little tougher, but in, and out, and he was done. He scooted his butt to the edge and said, "There."

Sylar struggled with his face, trying very hard not to smile. He reached up and scratched at his nose instead. "Really?"

"You aren't-" Peter stopped. Saying that Sylar was the size of two fingers was insulting and not true. So … yeah, maybe he should have used three. His fingers were still wet, so he rolled over a little and worked at himself. Three was a lot tighter, but he managed it. He could get them in there and that was what counted, right? "I'm ready."

"You really think so?" Sylar looked from Peter's ass to his face a couple times.

"Yes, I really think so," Peter said, an edge to his voice. He did not appreciate the amount of manipulation Sylar had seemed to think he needed before. It was probably why he was being so sullen and making fun of him now, he figured. Plus, wouldn't Peter know his own body better than some psycho rapist? He snorted and laid back.

"All right," Sylar said and Peter really should have paid more attention to the tone of voice he used. It was a warning by itself. Sylar took the lube and applied it generously to himself, then smeared it (again generously) around Peter's hole. Peter thought he already had enough there from his finger work, but Sylar was quick about it so he didn't complain. He felt the other man line himself up slowly and carefully. "You think you're ready for this?"

"Yes." Peter raised his head to give Sylar an annoyed look – which was also a stupid idea.

Sylar nodded once, gripped his hips and shoved into him. There was enough lube, and he used enough pressure that he went most of the way in. However, Peter screamed and jerked his legs back as if to try to kick the man off. He barely stopped himself from just that and for a moment, they hung together – the most excruciating, unexpected pain in his asshole and Sylar's 'don't you dare kick me' expression warring for which impulse he'd follow. Sylar pulled back, steadily, and all the way, out.

Peter whimpered. "Oh my God." He curled over on his side, trying to block out the memories of the rape, which had triggered full force for him. It had been a very similar sensation, but then he'd also had fear and anger to distract him. All he could do now was _ache_. Sylar stepped away from him and let him be. "Oh my God that hurt," Peter said again.

After a few moments, Sylar's voice cut through the fugue of pain Peter was feeling. "I really ought to give you more time, but I'm feeling a little impatient today."

Peter looked at him, eyes a bit too wide. He let his head fall back. He had well and truly fucked himself. He hurt again in a sudden wave. Sylar rolled him onto his back. Peter didn't fight it. He just bit his lip and was quiet as the other man pushed his knees up and exposed him again. He shook a little, then clamped down on his reactions. He shut his eyes, thinking that at least this time he knew a little better what was going on, he wouldn't be held down, and he wouldn't be struggling.

"Relax," Sylar growled, "Or this is going to take forever."

Peter opened his eyes and looked at him, because Sylar wasn't pushing into him. He was using telekinesis to hold his legs still while he rubbed Peter's thighs, following the muscle to his groin, then back to his knees. Peter stared at him, gathering that 'impatient' for Sylar did not mean getting straight to business. His captor's hands went down the back of his legs, rubbing circles with his thumbs near his anus, making Peter tense a little in surprise.

"Relax," Sylar said more softly.

Peter shifted his legs a little. They weren't held down so much as propped. He let his head flop back down. "Thank God. I thought you were just going to fuck me."

"I'm not a monster, Peter." He paused. "Well, maybe I am. But I'm … I'd rather it … it's probably easier for you to act like you like it if it feels good, rather than if it hurts like hell. I've been had like that too. Wasn't pleasant. I'd rather …" He huffed and quit talking, concentrating on what his hands were doing for a little bit. His strong fingers massaged Peter's buttocks thoroughly and carefully. "You'll be more open still if you come first."

"Please no," Peter said softly. He'd hooked a hand behind his head to cradle it, watching this very strange man do things to him that were also very strange, given that Peter was his prisoner. He lifted his feet and rested his heels on Sylar's shoulders.

"Mm," Sylar hummed approvingly. "Now that's a good position, by the way. Do you think you could keep it for long, or would that give you a cramp?"

Peter looked at his legs. "I don't know."

"Maybe we'll try it someday," Sylar mused.

"What … what's your endgame here?"

"I said that when I walked in - I'm going to fuck you today." Sylar's thumbs worked on either side of his opening, which for some reason provoked another spasm of pain.

Peter's face twisted, but it wasn't as bad as before. "That's-" He took a careful breath. "That's not what I mean. I mean what are you trying to accomplish with me? With all of this? What happens when you get tired … of me?" _Do I end up in the morgue like Claire, with a stainless steel spike in my head, as good as dead?_

"I'm not going to get tired of you," Sylar said very quietly, so softly Peter had to listen carefully to hear. "Not as long as you're basically cooperating like this. I understand this isn't ideal for you. I understand this isn't consensual. I understand that the only way I get to fuck you is if I coerce you and rape you." He looked up at Peter, a strange intensity in his eyes. "I want to do it anyway. I didn't get much of a choice on this either."

Peter swallowed roughly. "What?" he asked, confused.

Sylar ignored his question. "As long as you allow me the opportunity to fantasize, Peter, that's enough." He paused for a moment and looked down at what he was doing. "Your ass, like everyone else's ass, has a very strong sphincter muscle here, right inside the outer one." His fingertip traced a circle around the sensitive flesh of the anus. Peter twitched a little. "When you feel fear, or pain, in combination with stimulation here, it often causes the muscle to get irritated, overexcited, and then it spasms. That's what hurts. It will continue to spasm until it tires or until whatever is setting it off changes. Someone with more experience than you have can override it." Sylar continued rubbing the anal ring, relaxing and exhausting it by constant manipulation.

"That's why I've been prepping you a little more than normal - you're scared and you're inexperienced, so I know it's going to hurt if I don't stretch you out manually first." He applied lube to his hand, then slid three fingers into Peter fairly easily. The empath stiffened at the intrusion, shocked at how loose Sylar had gotten him without Peter even realizing it. The other man moved them in and out very slowly as he leaned over Peter's body, pursing his lips slightly and looking at Peter's in invitation.

Peter propped himself up and kissed him, opening his mouth and letting the other man's tongue inside him. Sylar's fingers continued to piston within him slowly. It felt _good_. Peter made a faint noise - not really a moan, of course, he told himself, because he wasn't enjoying this. None of it was enjoyable…he told himself that, at least. It wasn't very convincing.

He pulled back from the kiss to breathe harder. Sylar watched his face from only inches away and did something with his hand that caused a sudden, incredible surge of pleasure to run all through Peter's body, centered on his groin, or his ass, he wasn't sure which. It tore a whimper from his throat. "Oh!"

"That's your prostate," Sylar told him helpfully.

Peter clenched his teeth, upset about the involuntary reaction. That sphincter Sylar had been talking about tried to contract. It hurt. Sylar stroked the spot inside of him again and Peter fell back on the platform, arching a little and forgetting the pain.

Sylar said, "I'd been leaving this part alone until you got a little more used to the idea." He stroked him persistently now, setting every nerve in Peter's body ablaze with pleasure. Okay, this was enjoyable after all. Fine. Whatever. He writhed on Sylar's hand and moaned with abandon. There didn't seem to be any point in denying it. The other man leaned over him again for another round of kissing. Peter met him eagerly, feeling himself hard and full between them. He wrapped one hand behind Sylar's neck, while the other was behind him, propping himself up. Ardently, he pulled Sylar onto him.

His captor pulled his hand out and a moment later smoothly replaced it with his penis. Peter shoved back against him, trying to get that sensation again, hoping it wasn't something limited to hands alone. A moment later, Sylar shifted angle and Peter was flying high again. He fucked into him slowly, leaning forward to kiss him again, his hand sliding between them to stroke Peter's shaft. Peter groaned and whimpered into his mouth.

He wasn't going to last long. The regular strokes deep within him were pushing him right over the edge. He stopped propping himself up with one hand and clung to Sylar with both, rocking his body back against him, trying to draw him deeper and more fully on him. He felt like a complete slut, but he did it anyway. He clenched his legs around the other man's waist and suddenly threw his head back, gasping. Sylar bent his head and put his mouth over a nipple, sucking warmly at it. Everything inside of Peter exploded at once, his come shooting up between them to smack against Sylar's chest, throat and chin.

The other man straightened and pounded into him hard, plowing him through the aftershocks. This time Peter's white-knuckle clinging was for a totally different reason. Sylar spent himself a moment later, shuddering briefly afterward. They both held still, joined, and slowly calmed down. Peter curled forward, resting his forehead on Sylar's shoulder. Their breathing slowed. Peter's fingers relaxed a little and massaged slow, small circles where he'd been gripping.

_That was not rape,_ Peter thought. He wasn't sure what it was or how he felt about things, but they'd definitely changed. Peter finally spoke, saying, "Feel better? You looked kind of grumpy when you came in."

Sylar smiled lazily and kissed his cheek. "Yes. Thank you. This was exactly what I needed."

"You're twisting me up inside. I don't even know what I want anymore."

Sylar gave him a wry smile. "Peter … you have no idea. Ever since I took your ability …" He pulled Peter close and sighed.

"You have my ability?" Peter hadn't really thought about it, but yeah, there was no reason why Sylar would refrain from taking it while he was comatose and defenseless. He wondered if that had something to do with the CPR and other medical procedures he seemed to have endured before waking up here.

Sylar said, "All I ask is that you help me pretend. But if … if it stops being a pretense … it's not like I'd turn you away."

Peter pulled back and looked at him searchingly. What did it mean for a serial killer to suddenly develop empathy, to have a sense of people's genuine emotions and feel some reflection of them in his own soul? Peter kept holding the other man as he pondered, still enjoying the contact. He didn't want to let go.

They disengaged slowly, reluctantly, and cleaned up. Sylar asked, "What kind of books do you want to read?"

Peter took a deep breath and thought about that. They talked about his reading preferences for a while and Peter tried again to ask about what was going on with the other man. He was ignored once more, so he dropped it. Later that day, before the last meal, he received three paperbacks to his specifications. He spent the whole night reading them - for once pleased that they didn't turn off the lights. Sylar flogged him again in Scrabble the next day, but he didn't care. Peter was actually kind of content with things - not that he was happy to be a prisoner, but this was survivable. It was doable. He could handle this.


	7. The Division

The days blurred together for the next few weeks and it _was_ weeks that passed. Peter knew, because he had a calendar now. He also had a clock, which gifting had prompted the only use of mind control Peter was aware of: "_You are not to damage the clock_." Okay, fine. Not that he'd intended to. Sylar cared a lot about clocks – duly noted. He had a lot of other things too – more clothes, better hygiene supplies (including a toothbrush), a small library of books, a cot, a handful of tennis balls … He was still desperately lonely. Sylar only visited for an hour or so a day and it simply wasn't enough.

He went through a period of grieving for the world he'd lost and everyone in it, becoming depressed and withdrawn. He didn't want to play Yahtzee or Scrabble or chess or dominoes or any of the different card games they'd tried. He didn't want to talk, because everything there was to talk about reminded him that he was locked in a cell. He asked to be let out. It was politely declined. He begged to be let out. Sylar really did seem to love him and his plea bothered the hell out of the man, Peter could see. Sylar wouldn't answer.

Sylar had sex with him several times more after Peter stopped being welcoming to it. He grew less and less responsive until the final time, his captor became angry at him. He shook him and slapped him, demanding Peter acknowledge him; Peter swung at him and connected – "How's that for acknowledgement, you bastard?" Sylar let himself be hit over and over until he was curled on the floor and Peter wrenched his leg kicking him. Peter hobbled away to an empty corner of the room and threw himself down, breathing hard, staring at his enemy and thinking about how he'd had a chance there, for a moment no doubt, when he might have grabbed up his toothbrush or a pencil or some other thing he had now here in the room, and rammed it into Sylar's kill spot. He hadn't. And he didn't get up to do it now.

A few moments later it didn't matter, because Sylar was healed and got to his feet. He wiped the blood off his face and looked at Peter sadly. Peter gave him the finger. Sylar actually smiled, but he turned and walked out. If Peter had known what would happen next, he wouldn't have flipped him off. Because Sylar didn't come back the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. An entire week passed without Peter having any human contact whatsoever.

He tried talking to the attendant on the third day, babbling like an idiot at the slot, the moment it opened and continuing long past when the footsteps had faded down the hallway. Whoever it was didn't respond so the next day he kept the damn tray and wouldn't give it back. He went without food and water for two and a half days, and although he'd figured out his rations were drugged, there was no sign of his powers returning. He finally broke down and put it back. He could have held out longer, but if the drugs were the same as those he was familiar with, it would take more than a week to clear his system now that he'd built up a concentration – and that was only if he was able to flush them out.

No contact, whatsoever. He'd already been starved for it. Now he didn't even get to see Sylar. He took up his pencil and the sketch pad he'd been given. He wrote little notes to Sylar and put them on the trays to go out. He apologized. He begged. He made promises, each day more outlandish than the next. He stared at the clock, listening to it tick. Had it not been for that command, he'd have long since destroyed it. Not that he destroyed anything else in his room. That way was dangerous, more than what had happened already. It occurred to him that he had enough in the room to hurt himself, too.

On the eleventh day, Sylar came back, arriving shortly before breakfast as he usually had before. He stopped just inside the door, having brought a tray of fresh fruit, bread and soft cheese for them to share. Peter had been drawing, filling a page with renderings of his own foot, working on shadows and wrinkles and realism. He put the pad aside and stared at the man for a long moment. Peter's mind was full of static. Sylar finally walked over to the platform and set the tray down.

Like that action was decisive, Peter jumped up and strode over to the man. Sylar braced himself, clearly expecting an attack because that was what Peter's body language communicated. He didn't swing though. He started rifling through Sylar's pockets instead. He found the lube in the first one he checked. Sylar was a creature of habit. While he was at it Peter reached down and unbuttoned the man's slacks, pulled down the zipper a bit and yanked them down. Then he yanked him around to face the platform. Sylar was startled, clearly, but he bent slightly and put his hands on the mat.

Peter pulled himself out and worked himself slowly, breathing hard and trying to think through the rush of blood through his head (and other places). He couldn't. He couldn't think of anything. He paused to lube his hands and dropped the now-slippery bottle. He didn't care. He went back to stroking and probed at Sylar with inexpert fingers. Sylar bent more and reached back silently with one hand to spread himself. In all their fucking, Peter had never topped him – or anyone, for that matter. He didn't know why the desire seized him now, but it had.

When he was fully hard, he nudged at the other man's hole and was gratified that Sylar pushed back against him. He took hold of his hips with slippery hands and dug in his fingers as he pushed further within. Sylar keened slightly and then moaned as Peter started moving faster. It felt delicious. It felt like what he wanted. He vented his anger and frustration and loneliness, channeled it into the energy of his motions, thrusting frantically.

It was real – it was real – it was real. And Sylar was there, under his hands, around his dick, bent before him, being with him. Peter's brain started working again. He slowed suddenly, overcome, trying to let himself catch up, because it was too fast and too much all at once.

He leaned forward and pushed up Sylar's shirt to mouth the other man's back, suddenly regretting the position. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to touch his face. He wanted to feel his arms around him. He had none of that, so he started moving inside him again, plowing his ass with hard, regular strokes. Eventually he reached around to find Sylar's shaft and started pumping him. It took barely anything before the man lost it, making a small, higher pitched moan, almost like a sigh, as he went. Peter followed him moments later, the knowledge that his partner had climaxed driving him over the edge himself.

He didn't wait, pulling out immediately. He spun Sylar around again, making him stumble from having his pants around his knees, and threw himself in his arms. Peter hugged him tightly, his hands roaming under his shirt, up and down the man's back hungrily. A few seconds later, that too wasn't enough and he turned his head up to capture Sylar's lips, kissing him deeply. It was answered with passion. They kissed until Peter sagged away, eyes sliding shut in finally satiated bliss as he clung to his lover.

"Don't leave me," Peter mumbled, wrapping his hands into Sylar's shirt like he would resist his departure by holding on with all his might. "Don't leave me alone in here. Not again. Please. I'd rather you tortured me. I'd rather anything. Not alone. Please. Not alone."

Sylar sighed and reached up a hesitant hand to touch his hair. It slowly grew bolder, petting him. "No one likes to be alone, for the only person they care about to turn away from them."

Peter shuddered. He pressed his face to Sylar's chest, pulling the man against him like he just couldn't get close enough. "I won't."

"Peter, you'd leave me in a heartbeat if you had the chance." Sylar spoke softly, without blame.

"No. I won't."

The taller man was silent, digesting the truth of that, parsing the possible meanings. He enfolded Peter in his arms and kissed the top of his head. They stood together for long minutes, with Sylar eventually swaying slightly, rocking them together. Finally Peter came back up for another passionate kiss, then a round of smaller ones, touching and caressing Sylar's face. "I won't leave," Peter said. "Leave the fucking door hanging open and as long as you come back to me every day, I'll stay."

"I really have twisted you up then." Sylar tried to shrug him off and for a moment Peter didn't let him. Sylar put his hands on Peter and gently pried him off. "Let's eat, okay? I'm not leaving." Peter nodded and let him go reluctantly. They ate quietly until Sylar said, "You can't possibly want to be with me. This is just some sort of psychological thing. You're as damaged as I am. I didn't mean to-"

"I don't care," Peter said hotly, cutting him off. "What the hell did I have out there, anyway? My relationships were shallow and out of convenience. I was giving my life for …" He shook his head. "I was killing people. It was easy to cast me as a terrorist because I'd _become one_. I made so many mistakes. I kept fighting when the right answer was trying to negotiate – appeasement, reconciliation – _just stop fighting!_" he spat out, beginning to gesture strongly. "It wasn't accomplishing anything! There were other ways. I didn't find them because I didn't _**look**_."

He stared right at Sylar, saying, "What might have happened if someone had loved you?"

Sylar looked thrown by the question. "Peter … I'm not lovable."

"The hell you're not."

"I've … the things I've done to you …"

"The last five years have been a disaster," Peter threw out, cutting through the bullshit with Sylar in a way he never would have with those in the Resistance. "What if things had been different?"

"They weren't."

Peter huffed. "Yeah. Fine. You're right. They weren't. Then all we have is the future. Let's change _that_."

Sylar watched him closely as they ate. After so long has passed that Peter had to struggle to recall what he was answering, Sylar said, "Okay. I'll make arrangements. It might take a week or two. I've been having some problems."

When he left, the door swung open behind him.

XXX

It was three days later that it happened. Sylar had come back every day as promised. Peter had stayed, as promised. One moment it was just the two of them, Peter walking over to get the chess board while Sylar leaned on the platform and told him 'knock, knock' jokes; the next the room was crowded and Peter was being shoved against the wall. His heel hit something fragile, which shattered on impact. He looked down. It was the glass casing of the clock. His stomach felt like it dropped through the floor.

He looked back up. Sylar was on the ground, a dagger driven into one ear. Peter blinked. His kill spot wasn't quite where Peter had thought it was, not that this mattered much as Peter had never gone for it. He blinked around at everyone else. He was being held effortlessly by Niki, his sometimes girlfriend. She was regarding him curiously, because the Peter she was holding was as different from the one she knew as Jessica had been from herself.

He let his old persona settle over him, a permanent scowl etching itself in his features like it had never left. It fit him like a glove, and like a glove, it dulled his feelings. He hadn't realized just how much Sylar had stripped him down to the essentials, down to the person he'd been before any of this. He shook off Niki's hand and she let him, because now he was the same man she'd known before – or at least he looked that way.

Hiro gave him a small, genuine smile and a respectful nod. "We did not expect to find you here, Peter. This was the one place Sylar went regularly where he took no guards. Molly had been helping us track him. I am pleased to see you are still alive."

"Glad to see you too, old friend. Sorry I've been kind of out of the loop." He looked around the room, recognizing about half the faces. That was one of the things about the Resistance that had worn Peter down the most – the constant turnover. It was appalling – the loss of life in their struggle. There had to be a better way. He looked down at Sylar, eyes narrowing.

Hiro turned to the others and said, "As we agreed, I will destroy him." He reached down to touch Sylar's body.

"_**NO!**_" Peter jumped forward, barely having the presence of mind to have his voice be angry instead of frightened. He grabbed his friend's arm. "Where are you taking him?" he asked brusquely.

Hiro straightened and eyed the hand on his arm. That had been a misstep. Peter let him go. Hiro spoke stiffly, "I am taking him to an incinerator, where he will be burned until he is ash. Then we will scatter it. He will not come back."

Peter glanced around the room again. Everyone was in agreement and he only knew half the people here. Even of those, his word meant little if they thought he'd been trapped here, subject to whatever mental conditioning Sylar had been dishing out. And at least for the moment, he didn't give a shit if that was exactly what had been happening. He had to think fast. "Where's Claire?"

Hiro blinked once, which meant he was surprised by the question and its implications. "She is … We believed that she was dead. Of course, we also believed you were dead. Does she still live?"

"Yes, she does. And he knows where they're keeping her." He gestured at Sylar.

One of the people he didn't know said, "Maybe she's in another one of these cells."

"You can look," Peter said, "But I got out of him," he gestured at Sylar's body, "that she was in a coffin somewhere with a spike in her head." It was close to the truth – actually Sylar had said a morgue, but Peter knew that 'coffin' would get more of a reaction from the Japanese man.

Hiro's lips thinned. "She could be anywhere!"

"Let me talk to him. I'll find out." He looked down at Sylar, beginning to wonder what he'd do if they agreed and what he'd do if Sylar cooperated. Was there any possibility of that? If their roles were reversed, was there any chance of the relationship surviving? Did they even _have_ a relationship, or had Peter gone crazy in here? Had it all been just a ploy? Because there was no way Sylar was going to survive this as president. If he wanted to live, if he wanted a life with Peter or anyone else, he was going to have to give up _everything_ – everything except perhaps Peter.

People looked around at one another uncertainly. Everyone knew Peter had been in charge before Hiro. They also knew he had a past with Claire. So his request to stay Sylar's execution wasn't totally off-base, even if the circumstances were very questionable. The room was clearly a prison cell, even with the amenities.

Hiro was studying Peter intently though regardless. "You do not have your abilities?"

"No. They drugged the water. I'll get them back in a week or two though. We can just keep him like that until then."

Hiro looked down at Sylar for a moment, then at Peter. He was sensing that something wasn't right about the situation. Peter saw his doubt and tried to think of what he could say to persuade him, because the whole future hung on what Hiro decided to do. A thought came to Peter and he smiled arrogantly. "Like you told me all those years ago, Hiro: _'Save the cheerleader, save the world.'_"

Hiro smiled slightly and Peter knew he had him. The Japanese man nodded slowly and everyone relaxed as the tension was dispelled. Hiro said, "We will go back to headquarters then. We have much to discuss, friend."


	8. The Finale

"He kept me in there and that was it. I saw him for about a half hour every day most days, always in the morning. He didn't ask me any questions and he didn't give me any actionable information. He said he'd taken my ability and he … implied … that he wasn't handling that too well."

Hiro breathed out. "Then he is even more dangerous than we thought, if he has your abilities. It means he has them all."

Peter stared at him levelly from where he was slouched in his seat. He didn't have _all_ of the powers out there - just a lot of them. Sylar's abilities were immaterial though and always had been. Peter just hadn't seen it until now. "Have you ever thought about what it would be like to change everything?"

Hiro frowned. "We have tried going into the past. Both you and I. It did not work."

Peter toyed with his whiskey. He could actually get drunk now, and could until his regeneration came back online, so he was nursing it slowly. He swirled the amber liquid, watching the two ice cubes in it dance around one another - bumping, grinding, melting and refreezing against one another … He pulled his thoughts back to the matter at hand. "I'm talking about something different from time travel. I'm talking about … changing the future."

Hiro studied him and said, "That is what the Resistance is trying to do."

"The Resistance … isn't succeeding. There's a definition of insanity that involves doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result."

"We are _not_ doing the same thing," Hiro said tensely. "We vary our methods."

Peter sighed and sipped at his drink, wondering if and how much he could explain to Hiro. At some point, he _had_ to explain to Hiro, or at least he had to convince Hiro to let him _try_. Otherwise, as soon as he had the information from Sylar, Hiro would destroy him. "People still die."

"People die anyway."

Peter watched his friend and he let slip the mask he'd been wearing since they'd come into that cell and rescued him that morning. It was afternoon now. "Hiro," he said, and his slightly different tone of voice caught the swordsman's attention immediately. "People don't have to die."

Hiro stared at him, his face immobile and betraying nothing.

Peter swallowed and leaned forward, putting his drink down. "There are other ways. Let me look for them. Let me find them."

"People will still die. When it is their destiny, then it is inescapable." Hiro knew this full well. He and Peter were speaking now not of Sylar, but of Ando. Hiro had tried over and over to save his friend, but it was impossible. Peter had no idea how many attempts Hiro had made, but he'd finally given up, beaten. It was the only time Peter had seen him defeated and he had come out of the process greatly aged.

Peter asked, "How long was I in there?" By Sylar's own admission, the first night Peter had woke in the cell had been most of a week after the fight.

"It has been forty-two days since the federal building. We looked for you for three days after. You were not … there."

Peter leaned back in the seat again. "That's because I was dead. Or dead to the world. Molly's power wouldn't detect me any more than it detects Claire now."

Hiro nodded. "When your powers have returned, you can take that information from Sylar – Claire's location."

"I don't need my powers. He'd give it to me now, if I asked it."

Hiro blinked twice at Peter. A very long silence settled between them. Peter picked up his drink and sipped at it again. Finally Hiro asked, "Why?"

"Because he loves me."

"He is insane!"

Peter let his head loll back. "Hiro … I'm insane too." There it was. Hiro would understand what he was trying to say.

He understood. "That is why … you did not want me to kill him. Why do you tell me this? You know I will act to protect you." By which they both knew he meant to destroy Sylar. But right now they were just talking. Hiro would not act hastily unless Peter did something to make his friend think he needed to rush.

Peter remained firmly slouched in the chair, giving no impression that they needed to hurry this along. "Does someone's death make the person who loved them love them any less, Hiro?" Again, he would not speak Ando's name. That was not allowed between them.

"He has abilities that instill love. And loyalty."

"Then have Sarah heal me. Balance me out, Hiro. We have the resources. I'll submit to anything," he sat up now, staring at the Japanese man intently, "as long as it helps convince you to give me a chance."

"A chance for what?"

"A chance to be with him."

"You were a prisoner, in a cell, Peter."

"The door was open."

"He was there. You could not have left."

"It had been standing open for three days."

"He would have tracked you down. He knew where you were at all times."

"We're not talking about _him_, Hiro. We're talking about _me_."

Hiro took a breath to object further, then let it out. After a long pause, he said, "Do you know what was to happen next Sunday?"

Peter thought about the date, but nothing came to mind. He gave a small shake of his head.

"Sylar invited negotiations with us - the Resistance - to put aside the war. He said he was willing to discuss the unilateral disbanding of Homeland Security."

Peter swallowed. So those were the arrangements he'd said he would make. "Why did you move against him now?"

Hiro turned his expressionless eyes to Peter. "We thought it was a trap. He had been reorganizing the higher levels of government, removing the warhawks and replacing them with moderates. We could not see why he would do this. His people are virtually in rebellion against him. There is a measure being rushed through Congress even now to impeach President Petrelli. It seemed to us that if he could lure together our leadership, and capture us, that it would be the measure he needed to re-cement control."

"It wasn't a trap," Peter murmured. The sort of sweeping change Hiro was describing wasn't the work of a few days. Sylar had to have started it well before, perhaps weeks back.

"He has long since eliminated our precognitives. It is difficult to be sure of such a thing before it happens."

"It's _already_ happened," Peter insisted. "This is proof he was trying to change things."

"There is no proof that he would deal fairly with us."

"He'll tell me where Claire is, just for the asking. I promise." It was a reckless assertion and Peter knew he was gambling with Sylar's life the second he said it, but Sylar was dead if he didn't. It was a leap of faith and he was inviting Hiro to make it with him.

Hiro's lips pursed as he considered Peter's promise and all that it implied. "I will make arrangements for you to be balanced. In the meanwhile, I hope you understand - I must move Sylar and conceal him from you."

Peter shut his eyes briefly and sighed. "Hiro - I would not have told you this if I didn't have the utmost trust and faith in you." He stood up and nodded. "Keep him safe."

Hiro rose too, and gave a short bow of his head.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar came to groggily. He handed the knife back to Hiro. It looked like one of his, and like Sylar with timepieces, one did not disrespect blades in Hiro's presence. There were only four of them in the room – Peter, Hiro, Stephen, and Sylar. Stephen's ability was to generate black holes, small rips in the fabric of reality that utterly consumed anything that fell within them. His inclusion had been Hiro's idea in case things went wrong, and while Peter didn't want an outsider here, he didn't argue it. Sylar was doped up enough on neutralizing drugs that Peter had thought it possible he wouldn't wake at all. As it was, everything would be muffled to the other man – his head full of cotton, thoughts foggy.

Sylar swallowed and looked around the room blearily, finally letting his eyes settle on Peter's. His expression was raw. He pulled only a little at his restraints – not all that surprised. He was buckled to a chair. It was heavy and metal and sadly, had served this purpose before with other people. Peter sighed at what the Resistance had become.

He walked forward to Sylar and bent, putting his hands on the other man's, wrapping his fingers around him. "I'm not giving you a choice right now," Peter said and even though he whispered, his voice carried easily in the small, barren room. He leaned forward and kissed the other man full on the lips, deepening it as soon as Sylar let him, which was only a second later.

Stephen shifted uneasily, glancing between an impassive Hiro – who had expected something like this though he had not known Peter would make it this overt – and the two lovers. His orders and guidance did not cover this sort of thing. It was supposed to be a very short, simple interrogation – one question and they were done. Mentally, he hadn't ruled out the possibility of torture or prisoner abuse – given everything Sylar had done it would be fitting if they charged admission to let people take out their frustrations on him. But he hadn't expected _this_ as an interrogation technique.

Peter parted from Sylar, who leaned forward a little to follow him before settling back. His eyes went past Peter to the other two. Peter said softly, "Hey. Look at me. Nothing has changed – nothing at all. No pretending." He waited until some semblance of understanding crossed Sylar's face. "I need you to tell me something – just one thing. Sylar?" The other man's attention had wandered again as he was clearly trying to pull his thoughts together. "Sylar? I need to know one thing, okay?"

Sylar nodded slowly to him, focusing solely on Peter again. Peter was his lifeline and his only chance. He'd worked that out finally and now he turned his hands to hold Peter's – a hidden plea in that gesture. Peter nodded, smiling a little and breathing a sigh of relief that he'd gotten through.

In the background, Stephen said, "I thought he was just going to use telepathy." Hiro gave him a withering look that made the man embarrassed that he'd said anything at all. He fell silent.

Peter ignored it. Sarah had been able to not only vouch that Peter wasn't under any mental compulsions (which he'd been curious about as well), but also heal him of the lingering effects of the drugs in his system. Instead of a week, it had only been a day, but the continued absence of the president was causing matters political to come to a head very quickly. They had a solution, but Peter had insisted this be settled before implementing it. "Sylar? You need to tell me where Claire is."

Sylar glanced past him again.

"Yeah," Peter said, trying to recapture the heavily drugged man's attention. "They need to know. But I need to know too. Do you know where she is?"

"She was," Sylar began thickly, "in the Pinehearst morgue."

Inside, Peter felt an enormous weight lift from his heart. He and Hiro hadn't discussed it explicitly, because so much with Hiro was contextual, but Sylar's survival hinged on whether Peter could get him to answer this one question, without coercion, threat, negotiation or bribe – one simple question, with one simple answer. Peter had promised that and he had no doubt Hiro would hold him to it. "She 'was' there – when was that?"

"I … I …" Sylar looked around the room, blinking. He looked at the walls. He looked at his wrists and Peter's. He looked at Peter's face. "When … when …" He looked past him at Hiro and the other man.

"Sylar?"

"When we were together," he looked back at Peter sadly.

"We're still together."

"We are?" Sylar looked so hopeful it hurt.

Peter squeezed his hands and smiled. "Yes. We are. Is there any reason why Claire wouldn't still be there?"

Sylar looked down, considering. Finally he looked back up and said, "I can't think. She should be? How long has it been?"

Hiro walked forward. "That is enough." He offered the knife to Peter, who grimaced and took it sullenly.

Peter leaned in and kissed Sylar passionately. "I'm sorry," Peter told him. "It won't be long."

Sylar looked at Hiro blankly, then down at the floor. He tilted his head to the side cooperatively, letting Peter insert the knife and put him out again.

XXX

Peter pulled the knife out for the second time, this time swabbing at the side of Sylar's head with a wet cloth. When the other man stirred, the empath put a gentle hand on his shoulder and said, "Hold still." Hearing a familiar voice, Sylar did as directed. Peter wiped off what little blood there was, then retreated to a chair near the bed.

Sylar sat up, rubbing the damp spot behind his ear. He looked around the room. It was a fairly large room, windowless, but busy. The walls were full of shelves with books. There was a desk with the clock he'd given Peter (repaired now), as well as a worktable. One corner was screened off for privacy and another had a heavy boxing bag suspended in it. There was a television … no, a computer screen, a dresser, the bed he was on, and a two person card table in the middle of the room, with one chair at it. Peter sat in the other, which was drawn over to the side to be closer to him. There was no platform in the middle of the room, and the floor was carpeted, the walls painted, but it was a cell very like the one Peter had been in. Perhaps even the same one.

Peter said, "_**Now**_, I'm giving you a choice." He smiled. "It's basically the same one you gave me: we can fight, or we can fuck."

Sylar snorted and laughed a little. "That's not a tough choice, Peter."

"Yes, it is," Peter said, sobering. "It might be the hardest choice you've ever had to make, because I'm giving you something you didn't give me until the end." Peter shook his head. He wasn't sure, at all, how this was going to turn out, but if his own empathy was wrong, if he'd misread the situation, then it was going to be disastrous for everyone - Peter included. "It wasn't until the end that I was ready for it. I would have made … a different choice before - the wrong choice."

Sylar cocked his head slightly, a defensive cast creeping over his features.

Peter held up the wet cloth he'd used earlier, a small bloodstain on it. "You've got all your abilities." He gestured at the door, which was shut. "The door is open, to you, right now. But here in an hour or so, they're going to bring your first meal and it will be drugged." He smirked. "We talked this out for hours, me and the others, but somehow they overlooked that you'd wake up free. I didn't see any reason to point it out. It will take a few days for the drug to build up in your system, but after that, you'll be powerless." Sylar frowned.

Peter gestured at the door again. "You can walk out of here, and have everything that's outside that door." He paused, considering how to say the next part.

Sylar saved him the trouble, understanding what the choice was. "You're not outside that door. That's why it's a choice between fighting or fucking."

"I'll visit you every day," Peter said earnestly and for a moment he fought off the urge to do something dramatic like go to his knees and beg. Then he remembered Sylar had his empathy, and this might be the only chance he got anyway to express this. This was important on so many levels. He knelt before the other man and took his hands in his own. "This is the best I could swing. I don't get to make decisions unilaterally, all by myself, like you did. But this is what they would accept – life imprisonment, or what amounts to it. It's either that, or you walk out of here and we go back to the war.

"I'm hoping that after a few years I can get them to reconsider, or get you out on good behavior, or hell - just that everyone who didn't agree with me that you should be pardoned dies. You said … you said you were a patient man, and … and I'll visit you everyday. I promise. I'll even sleep with you if you'll let me." He was silent for a bit, pawing at him slowly, desperate. Sylar looked him over carefully, then moved his hands to hold Peter's and still their restlessness. Peter asked, "I want to love you. Is it enough?"

Sylar reached up and carded the fingers of one hand gently through Peter's hair. "Peter, ever since I took your ability, I have … hungered … for something that had nothing to do with power, or freedom. Only you have been able to sate that. At first I thought my attentions were what you deserved for inflicting this on me, however unintentionally. But that didn't last." He swallowed. "It couldn't - almost from the first. I started hurting you, and it hurt _me_." He looked past him at the door. "There's nothing I really want out there - not more than I want what's in here. I'll stay."

Sylar pulled Peter up to kiss him. They embraced passionately, ending up with Sylar flat on the bed and Peter on top of him. Peter leaned up to look down at the other man and said, "I have definitely gone crazy."

Sylar snorted. "Yes, you probably have. So … I have to ask, what's the Resistance going to do about the presidency now, with me out of the picture?"

"Pssh. That's all taken care of," Peter replied breezily. "Oh, and have I told you about my new day job?"


End file.
